Cast of a Thousand Shoulders
by NovelT
Summary: Sometimes parents, much less a Council of them, inevitably play favorites. Sometimes meritocracy can be crueler than the most structured of societies. Such hearkens the saga of two warrior scholars... still WIP: 1 blurb, 12 chapters
1. OC: Feedback Feedback

**(OC) Feedback Feedback**

Love the encouragement, hope for more "good for you" pills, and just had to pay respects to the under-acknowledged underground of review-writers...

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**Shibboleth's Aeon** (8/30/05): ... I'm going to be very frank here ...

**NovelT**: Thanks for making me take a step back and actually _look_ where I'm going. Have a (probably very non-unique) tendancy to get lost in my own overly-flowery prose (), which of course then makes even me cringe a few weeks down the road. Am trying to keep in mind that simple is beautiful (something I truly buy into), but it's an ongoing (and, I fear, more often than not losing) battle.

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**Trillian4210** (9/6/05): ... I suspect, and I haven't checked your bio, that you are male, yet you write the women very well ...

**NovelT**: That line, believe it or not, inspired this page (always wanted to reply to reviews, but couldn't find a "nice" a.k.a. non-story-disrupting way of doing so in As my bio contains an informative 0 lines of information, you might not end up too enlightened, but I'll let the cat out that I am indeed female, and not unhappy about it (). It remains however that your comment is amongst the biggest compliments I have ever received, because I am a firm believer that the best people are neither blatantly "male" or "female", just people. For some strange reason feminists will probably lambast me for, it always flatters me to hear that my work can be considered as from either camp.

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**JDRVJonas** (2005-10-02): When's the next update? ...

**NovelT**: Insert standard excuses regarding the start of the school term etc. In my experience that either inspires lots of escape-writing, or cuts it down to a miserable dribble. As one of those weird people who actually love their jobs, you can imagine which I'm guilty of.

Anyway this spiel isn't quite as pointless as it seems -- I was and am wondering if my writing style has persisted in being incomprehensible enough that people take a glance and think "reading this will probably be 'good mental gymnastics', but ugh let's not bother". Given the (relative?) lack of comments it may be that my "select audience" is so select as to consist of one (or two, depending on the much-tested patience of my beta).

While yours truly is solidly in the camp of those who claim to write for their own pleasure, it remains that if the species wrote solely for such, there would only exist scribblings on some dusty margins. Thus endeth my plea for some indication, however brief, on whether or not to quit embarassing myself by actually permitting said scribblings to air.


	2. OC: Intro and Blurb

**Cast of a Thousand Shoulders**

Sometimes parents -- much less a Council of them -- inevitably play favorites. Sometimes meritocracy can be crueler than the most structured of societies. Such hearkens the saga of two warrior-scholars trapped in each other's shadow, and one glory-seeker who knew not what was shed upon throwing lot in with them. Such stages a quest on the behalf of questions one galaxy cannot answer.

**Warning #1:** author is an unashamed advocate of unorthodox pairings. Contents may be more coherent to those with general knowledge of the KoToR I and II plots, but no apology is made for the characters' liberal and/or inaccurate recounting of events.

**Warning #2:** author operates under the delusion that all good stories must beat out their own paths. While this is sadly no formula guaranteeing a "good story", this work may, between ignorance and intent, meander far, far off-track in characterization and metaphysics. The reader may, in no particular order of preference, (a) treat this as living in a parallel universe, (b) offer corrections and the occasional knock on the head, (c) stop reading.

**Insert-standard-disclaimer:** universe and back-story owned by the usual suspects. Events, portrayals, and additional props in this work suffers from the author's interpretation and penchant for melodrama.

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**Request-for-comments:** author will be pathetically grateful to Star Wars mythology and/or phraseology gurus willing to point out kinks. Please keep in mind that author is a blue-blood earthling.

**Apologies:** author is constitutionally unable to resist changing past chapters (hopefully for the better) upon review. As such the text (though not generally the storyline) may occasionally morph on the unsuspecting reader looking to refresh their memory. On the other hand: reviews (yes, harsh ones welcome!) are mostly taken to heart and do have some discernable impact. Whether this is a good or bad change will need to wait for reviews of reviews.

**(OC) 8/30/05:** Thanks to Shibboleth's Aeon's comment I reread the first chapter and found a hideous disconnect between the style I started out at and the (methinks better) style the story demanded of me. Patchwork is always hard to try to pass off as not-patchwork, but gave it a try. Hope it flows better now.

**(OC) 9/5/05:** Removed some earthisms from chapter 2, and another minor change the reader can have fun hunting for. Chapter 3 was recalcitrant and still too raw for comfort, but rather than rewrite it for the n-th time I'll hope for some constructive reviews to ease things along.

**(OC) 9/16/05:** Some major cosmetic (oxymoron?) changes to chapter 4. Added short (and probably useless) one-liners for all chapters.

**(OC) 7/24/06:** Time dilation factors swallowed half a year. Really! I went back and tried to simplify the style, but depending on the depth of the ruts, the effect may well be imperceptible. Apologies. Might take another stab in another six months, but for now it's on with the story.

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**Spoiler (!) #1:** the Exile is the official star of the show, though we democratically borrow eyes of observers. We retain two of the author's favorite (and believed underplayed) entourage characters for this continuation of the Exile's adventures. An irascible old coot may be dragged out of retirement since the Prodigal Knight's turn, but must be excused for taking much time about it. Revan makes late entrance as well, though it comes to no-one's surprise that the Knight's signature sprawls the galaxy in indelible ink. Lastly, be not surprised if the Exile reverts to habits of agglomerating an army, and be not alarmed if they are faces of a future meet.

**Spoiler (!) #2:** in the (opined) tradition of the beloved games, this is a conversation- and character-driven piece that is unabashedly voyeuristic of relationships. There is romance, but the author works on the belief that "romance" is merely a facet of the subtext between worthies. There are plots, secrets to be uncovered, but the author may be rather verbose in the reaching of waypoints. For the rest, the reader will simply have to read.

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**Chapters (WIP)**

1. In the Tale, a Story

2. A Curtain Falls

3. And Another Rises

4. In Words, Not All Is Said

5. Cruelest, the Subtle Chain

6. Castles and Sand

7. Composition of Stars

8. Best of Men

9. Pieces On Board

10. In An Era's Wake

11. Reverie

12. Dues Perceived, Dues Paid


	3. In the Tale, a Story

**In the Tale, a Story**

_**Heroes are by definition extraordinary people. It is also said that heroes are ordinary people with extraordinary gifts, or ordinary people with gifts of doing extraordinary things, but there has always been a thousand ways and one to skin a gabal. Most of the time heroes are simply who the storyteller spends most time and thought upon, so we will leave it at that. You, O listener, may decide their species.**_

_**Let us instead busy ourselves with a little orientation. Our tale begins and ends with heroes, as all tales must, yet all heroes require a stage. Our first is carried upon a craft scarred by fire and ice, currently trudging the halls of hyperspace. The act opens on decks fallen far from ostentatious beginnings. And the clock chimes out yet another long interlude between the end of one saga and the start of another...**_

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Parry. Slash. Block on the right, followed by sweep of the left foot. Back-flip with in-air twist. Then the fumble -- sixth time too many for one session. A steadying breath.

No matter that breath trembled in constricted lungs. No matter that air itself fractured with hurt, with dread. No matter that fatigue seethed deeper than mere limits of the body.

When one fails, all that remains is the option to try again.

Parry. Slash. Block...

"Enough!"

Renani, former Jedi, former Exile, current Scapegoat for crimes and charities of the Order (both), tripped over a foot intended for a hypothetical opponent. The rest of her described an unbecoming sprawl on the cargo deck.

A short guffaw greeted her efforts. "Exxx-cellent," was the assessment. "The enemy will never see that one coming."

Bidding reluctant farewell to her newest acquaintances -- scuffs and stains -- the erstwhile General pushed herself off ship plating. "What do you want, Mandalore?" came out in near-growl. Never one for reciting the Jedi Serenity Code, she had also never wished as much that it were otherwise. An idle moment wondered how unamused certain Jedi Masters might be by the rationale; after all, it was motive that defined improved conduct, was it not? But then, said Masters were now far removed from any ability of the sort.

A thought too morbid to approach funny, or so conscience claimed it _should_ be.

Backlight sandwiched a silver-on-black figure between corridor and interior. For one missed heartbeat, the sizzle of light on metal overlaid short screams from the dying and longer screams from the bereft. Fresh blood grated every scab off inured senses. And each life that waned -- sides? What was a Side? -- did so only after shaving off that one precious sliver of soul.

A past life was close this night, and too many were the days where the Exile wondered if "Reni" existed outside of her friends' sunblossom-tinted convictions.

Like his kind had, once upon a grander scale ago, the one intruded. Each deliberately noisy step was punctuation to a statement. "Ship," addressed the voice that, more than anything else to the Exile's thinking, signed the Mandalore of Mandalore. "Standard luminosity."

And so it was.

The Exile found the symbolism ironic; the man bragged of starring in galaxy-wide nightmares, after all. Confusion tasked her to blink stupidly as he adopted the formal start of a duel.

"This fighting yourself wastes all our time, girl. A real opponent might improve your focus." His tone expressed no overwhelming confidence of that likelihood.

Reni's slack-armed stance disproved zero percent of that assumption. The situation was simply too bizarre to warrant the expected and, more importantly, sensible response. The former General was used to drop-ins, friendly matches inevitably progressing to instruction sessions, audience included. Mandalore's presence was all but given; the man was a kath hound for battle -- mock, real, in-between. If the Force knew what invisible sensors he had managed to rig (and she had checked), it kept it like it kept all its secrets -- impenetrably well.

It remained that the only warrior on-board who might be the General's match never challenged her. It remained that while the Jedi would dearly have welcomed the learning opportunity, she never expected him to.

Mandalore gave no quarter in which to ponder the oddity. As it was, Reni was barely in time to flinch at the breeze from an armored fist that would have doubled her over had it followed through.

"Next one won't be a feint," came the warning.

Shaking her head as if it would dislodge the plague of surreality, she relaxed muscles and let the flow of instinct take over. A last-ditch deflection of an uppercut was time enough to calculate that they were an even match hand-to-hand. The jar transmitted down her very bones.

Mandalore had the unsurprising advantage of having studied her style.

Not much edge was required to send the Exile to reacquaint with the floor. Rubbing a newly-bruised shoulder (the sundry other parts being less accessible in company), she summoned a bleary glance up at the winner of a foregone match.

"Sloppy." Voice and stance conveyed disappointment, as if it were mandated somewhere that she could do better.

The Exile sighed, drew legs, laid forehead on knees. Perhaps it only felt as if sluggishness and a pending migraine were in the process of detaching her head from her spine, for she rather wished they did. Another expel rid what little air was left in her lungs.

"This is not a good day, Mandalore."

"'Course it isn't. I'll just tell the Sith to come back tomorrow. Or would you prefer I do them the favor of gutting you, right here?"

"Perhaps you should do the galaxy that favor," was softly agreed.

Fingers clamped bruisingly around her triceps and hauled her upright. She met the helmeted face, but felt only a mild, belated affront.

"A leader with a death-wish, are you now?"

She lacked the energy to summon more than a token spark of anger, which the abyss swallowed without so much as an appreciative burp. A hollow sound that tried to be a laugh emitted from a throat not recognizably her own. "Better me than the galaxy, don't you think?"

"What nonsense did the crone and her cronies" -- he spat the nouns -- "jam into _your_ head?"

Reni shook her head. "Only the truth. Of what I'd done. To Malachor V. To Katarr. To everything and every, everyone I touch, just by existing."

"And you believed them?" Scorn warred disbelief for prominence in Mandalore's voice. "It must be a miracle you survived the war. It sure is that you won it."

"Stop saying that! I didn't win the..." Even if his eyes were not visible to deal the accusation she deserved, her head felt too heavy to hold up. "I, what I did was worse, wasn't it? Can't run from the truth. Has a habit of catching up."

"I should kill you for being a sniveling fool, but you'd probably take it as a mercy."

"It would be, for us all." A distant, receding part expressed concern at such a promotion, but "I can't fix what I broke. Everything I do just compounds it."

"And you think passive surrender will make it all better?"

/#For the unworthy leader there remains the way of the blade.#/

A sharp flex of fingers transmitted Mandalore's response to that ritual phrase, taken from and delivered in the tongue of his people. The pain brought his hands to abrupt foreground, hands still in a grip that passersby could construe as intimate, hands that could snap her neck and then finish a blink.

She was not afraid.

For a long while the world narrowed to the hiss of harsh breaths behind that silver helm, a sound somehow indicative of more emotion than the Mandalorian ever seemed to exhibit. There passed time enough and more to consider that he might actually enact -- or allow her to follow through -- the double-edged rite. Reni could not quite pin down what she felt at the prospect. Dread? Hope?

Calm, perhaps: here, at last, one decision neither hers to make nor execute.

/#You will _never_ speak that again! You will not cheat me of a life-claim!#/ "So hear me, girl, if you do something as idiotic as getting yourself terminated" -- the switch to Basic was perhaps more revealing than his vehemence of speech --

"Not even hiding in your Force will stop my following to kill you myself."

* * *

_interlude_

Another planetary day, complete with impotent sun on chill ground. Another long trek, on foot for the twin reasons that credits weighed in square meals, and that the only destination was the oblivion of motion.

With a clarity the Force sometimes bequeaths its servants, _she_ was aware that She-Who-Walked was a mere wisp of a dream/vision, but it was a distinction that diminished with each desultory step.

Thus it became more and more _her_ aching feet that eked out miles of lifeless soil, _her_ eyes that watered from a glare without the benevolence of heat, _her_ breath that congealed on a veil the cold conveniently excused her to wear.

_Her_ startled trepidation when a metallic tang in still air signaled that such and such a blot near the horizon was not just another pimple of volcanic past and more of a...

The Traveler squinted, one hand raised to assist the deep cowl at warding off extraneous light. A body? In a place so far off the beaten track that even the locals had nothing more descriptive to offer than "barren" and "worthless"?

The petty part of her psyche voted for feet to remain in motion, for senses to ensconce in the safe little world consisting only of Self. But the Traveler's were eyes too familiar with the sight of bodies -- broken, bloodied, discarded like a petulant child's toys -- to permit the illusion of ignorance.

Or at least, not for long. Not quite by volition, she found her shadow darkening the charred and unnaturally twisted form of a...

**...man. Fighter, if that armor is anything to go by. The carbine would cinch it, except that it seems to have exploded on him, yet that is no amateur merc's toy. His hands...** -- the Traveler winced in sympathetic pain even as the business part of her produced a clinical catalogue -- **Broken is an understatement. Legs too, by the looks of it. Not a pleasant death, if such exists.**

/#Come. To. Gloat?#/

Eyes that had slipped shut for a moment of regret flew wide even as she crouched, hands outreached to hover above the too-still figure before consciousness censored the reflex as useless. Instead, she picked gingerly at the bits of shredded mesh and metal that obscured the extent of his injuries, trying to not inflict further damage, further pain. It was futile. Yet the man barely twitched, that last rasping sentence apparently having sapped what little remained of his body's overtaxed resources.

/#Rest, warrior. I seek no battle with you,#/ the Traveler murmured automatically.

Then the language of their exchange struck, and her hands froze -- a tongue almost as second nature as Basic, though for more perverted reasons.

Focus receded, overtaken by introspection. Anger? Disgust? Vindication? Surely reasonable responses, for hundreds of worlds of people even if not her specifically. Fear? Alarm? Suspicion? Not particularly warranted by the situation, but a normal enough reaction.

The Mandalorian's eyes remained stubbornly open, bloodshot pupils staring at her with the compounded weight of every last one of her sins.

The Traveler swallowed dust and guilt, forced her fingers to resume their painful mercy. If only the F-- but no, it was worse than pointless to dwell on that most lancing of betrayals.

Medpacs were a luxury she had long gone without, but a soldier should have... hands closed gratefully over the battered remains of a pouch, emerged triumphant after a minute of tentative probing. The dribbles of kolto returned some color to a face that might have been tan under shock-induced pallor, grime, and extensive blistering.

Her patient clenched his teeth obstinately around a groan. /#Y'r. Not. Her.#/

She shushed him, worried that even the clipped syllables of his people seemed exacted at great cost. /#I am a friend. Let me help.#/

His eyes narrowed, and she recalled belatedly that no Mandalorian would tend a fallen stranger beyond stripping them of weapons. It mattered not to the Traveler, who had not thought to pose as such, but a Mandalorian in his straits would probably prefer looting than assistance.

Vague hopes of having encountered one sensible Mandalorian were shattered soon enough.

"Kill me 'n be done w'th it," came the laborious but unmistakable command.

The Traveler shook her head a trifle exasperatedly, while tearing a strip from the hem of her robe plus trying to decide which wound needed the most immediate tending. /#This is not yet your time,#/ she said, concentration so complete that she missed the switch to Basic.

"Beat it! Don't want y'r 'help', chit."

She resisted the urge to glance incredulously around for the army at his back, and instead tightened another makeshift bandage (having given up on triage and settled for methodical progress). "You will die if I don't help you."

"Let death come, or 'help' it 'long."

Her head snapped up, something in his tone shatteringly resonant with the meaningless toil of her late life. Much later would hindsight pin it as the moment whereby the saving of this life became more personal than a creed of her previous profession, more personal than reparations she felt daily obligated to make.

/#So you seek the coward's way?#/ The challenge was issued almost before thought.

/#Your life is mine for that insult!#/ her patient almost bellowed, anger lending strength. "Now if you know anything of Mandalorian vows, girl, better leave me be or I _will_ have your head."

He had not counted on steel being met with steel.

"Then live, that you might not disgrace your clan with a lie," the Traveler snapped, and proceeded to fashion a stretcher from stave and cloak.

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

It was not an easy recovery for patient or ersatz doctor, not that the latter had entertained illusions even at the less-than-rosy start. The Mandalorian's blaster arm could only be called mangled, the other a marginally less lurid adjective. A number of broken ribs made moving him both excruciating and hazardous. His left leg was broken in at least two places, his right hung from a shattered knee. The regenerative implant would have been welcome help -- had its components not been melted beyond repair. Even the Traveler's meager store of medical knowledge was up to diagnosing that there was much more damage than could be accounted for by an exploding rifle, point-blank range or no.

A vestigial part identified the likely cause, but her conscious mind ran fast and far from it. Thought was a luxury anyway, given that working to scrounge up feed and disproportionately expensive medication occupied sunup to sundown of each thirty-standard-hour day.

The backwater village she had managed to drag the both of them to had no use for her skills beyond being another warm body; her head might know the fortune of it being harvest, but her bones felt otherwise.

As hard as menial labor and inadequate food were on the Traveler, however, lack of "real" treatment was worse on her ungrateful patient. No charitable healer had popped conveniently out of the wormwood. The Mandalorian was in constant pain, even if he bit through his lips rather than utter it. But it was the pain in his soul that was the most insidious enemy, one that no amount of carefully rationed kolto could heal.

There were days when the Traveler was convinced that only her goading and his anger kept him going. There were days when she was too weary and nauseated from hunger to so much as wonder why she tried.

It would have been so easy... it would have been what he purportedly wanted more than anything.

But he hung on, and so did she.

And one day, when she had collapsed her too-thin frame against the adobe walls of the tiny (though at least clean) hovel the villagers had so "generously" allowed them to use, he asked her name.

The Traveler peered cautiously out from her getting-to-threadbare cowl -- the line between concealment and necessity long since blurred by a cold her body no longer wasted effort trembling against. The only positive concerning the weather had been that it kept the inevitable infection easier to contain, and offered marginal relief for her patient from the equally inevitable fevers that followed.

A now-coherent patient, one asking her name.

Her jaded mind wondered. He had been consistently content to address her by curses (apparently the Mandalorian language came equipped with an extensive arsenal, the bulk of which she was not sorry to claim flew over her head). The favored "girl" or "chit" actually approached charitable.

/#You are at least worthy enough to name before killing,#/ he said, broadcasting grudging concession.

She studied him critically from the shadows of her hood, though she knew it annoyed him no end that she "lacked the honor to show face". Brows and hair had recovered from thankfully mild (O wonders of relativity) burns, the latter in sufficient quantity that she'd had to take a knife to the uniform and surprisingly soft (an observation wisest kept to oneself) grey crop. He had berated her for "squeamish waste of kolto" on more cosmetic injuries, but an obdurate facet was determined to make his healing as complete as possible despite her inability to access... other means.

Without much use of either arm -- a fact that both regretted, and never more so than at mealtime -- he had little choice in the reduction of horrific burns to scars visible only to mistress or joygirl (or joyboy, she supposed). The clan tattoo was another matter, one the Traveler found herself mourning even if the Mandalorian refused to acknowledge it. Still, she knew better than to offer worthless platitudes. It would have been the height of hypocrisy, at any rate, to profess consolation when her own identity had been more irrevocably lost.

The rest, consisting of painstakingly, painfully set bones, only time or a full medical facility would heal. She was nowhere near confident that the impromptu treatments could allow him to regain full mobility, but a real surgeon should be able to compensate for the shoddy effort... assuming either of them got off this rock within their lifetimes.

The Traveler's ship-passage had been one of the first things to fall sacrifice to the harsh language of commerce.

A long sigh escaped as she drew to a close contemplation of the man whose body she had tended more of than was tolerable for either of their dignities. They were both anything but strangers to necessity, but for a person to see so much of another required either the familiarity of intimacy or the impartiality of professionalism. As it was, neither fit the credit-line.

Chronic hunger helped, in a twisted fashion, by robbing every other detail of the impact they would have had under more normal circumstances.

/#Aleen,#/ she decided at last. /#Call me Aleen, if there is a civil tongue in that block you call head.#/

"Now who's trading insults?" he scoffed. They both had, of course, been guilty of sniping at each other, if nothing else as safety valve against forced cohabitation. The Traveler could recall no time, place or person with which she had been similarly as verbally uninhibited -- one did not, after all, go about airing sarcastic commentaries in "polite" society. But, however crass he could (often deliberately) be, the Mandalorian enjoyed a good battle of wits and was a graceful loser, a gracious winner -- the ideal opponent. Tempers flared as frequently as energy or lack thereof allowed, but never festered. It was amazing how long a way that went to make sub-sub-standard living conditions almost palatable.

Then again, the Traveler changed her mind about "palatable" rather often. Such as when...

"'Alone'? Melodramatic, but fitting I suppose. Very well, 'Aleen'." Eyes the dark of a wounded wild animal, hating her for witnessing his weakness, hating himself for inability to escape. His words rang coldly off the walls that penned them. "It will cease to matter soon enough."

_end interlude_

* * *

All Fates, or so it seemed to the Exile, demanded that she meet them on foot. Destiny might allow others swoop bikes, corvettes, Basilisk war-droids, or -- for the very lucky few -- soft sheets on warm bed. For _her_ it reserved long solitaries across landscapes lifted straight from a depressed/depraved artist's mind.

Always the good herd-beast, she marched to its tune, walking, walking, from the mists of one memory into the embrace of another present. It had never been her luxury to pretend that a lightsaber or two could ward off Fate's intentions.

Two shimmering ranks of Sith fell to their knees in perfect synchronicity with her unchallenged approach -- a fitting tribute for the sacrificial nerf.

The structure was marde upon malab, cold stone that remembered all, revealed none. A million eyes, dead, living, seen, unseen, were firaxa circling the conclusion of a saga, anticipating ripples that could never erased.

This was Malachor V. This was Trayus -- the Academy, the Heart. It stood, still, despite the wreckage of a world and more around it. It was a fitting endgame, one crafted by the Exile's own damnably-well-intentioned hands.

Those were the only kind to wreck true disasters.

This was Malachor V. Fifth in the line of a half-dozen satellites that even the Mandalorians in their battle frenzy knew to be wary of. Here, Kreia, the Betrayer who had written herself into the role, and what for? The education of a former Jedi more thoroughly broken than the planet itself?

Most Jedi would have Push-flung the double doors rather than soil their hands on the Sith-infused structure. Most Sith would have Push-flung the double doors for the pleasure of a dramatic entrance.

The Exile did not subscribe to either rationalization. Smooth surface glided like silk over hard-earned calluses, yielded with little protest. For an infinitesimal heartbeat she hesitated, lit by the sickly ambience of a dying planet, framed by the maw into an anathemic culture.

The moment passed. She strode into her future on a world that had forged her past even as she performed for it the same courtesy.

Behind her, the winds howled back each death-song that had ever been cast into its wake. Then the impact of stone on stone -- felt more than heard -- forever sealed the one portal.

And so turned a page.

* * *

_interlude_

Winter, which both had been dreading within what precious little salvage remained of privacies, brought with it an unanticipated boon. Neither saw it as such at first, since it cost the one, in the words of the other, "use of that damned fool arm".

At that point, resources both mental and physical were stretched so thin that, had the Traveler applied conscious thought to it, she would have hung her head but left well alone. Yet, some instincts prove to be rooted deeper than outer circumstance; for her, it was the need to protect. So was it that while a gaggle of villagers anxiously awaited this rope or that ladder to be fetched, the Traveler dove unthinkingly down the ravine to fetch a miniature of their own.

The wrenched shoulder -- which would have not been incurred at full health -- was price for plucking one rescuee from one crumbling ledge before panic (did they really think to coax it into climbing up on its own?) wrote an unhappy ending to the tale.

Fortunately, most sentients come programmed with protectiveness of offspring, and the parent (a hermaphrodite race) was suitably grateful. It helped that the child was out of commission for travel, and the "happy" conjunction dropped two ship-passages into the strangers' laps.

The cramped cargo-hold-turned-dormitory for too many unwashed bodies was no luxury liner, to be sure; yet there is some relief in being crowded by a crowd rather than a single other.

The Traveler found additional reason to be amused by the Mandalorian's intemperance. For it, the other passengers gave the downed warrior -- and herself by association -- wary berth.

She was not ungrateful.

_end interlude_

* * *

"Go," so advised the inaudible whisper. "Yet-t-t t-time... s-s-save 'r-r-rs-selves..."

The armor growled. Hard hands plucked one-point-eight-six meters of lean-muscled Jedi from the ground as if she was no more substantial than the bundle of rags swathing battered frame, then just as swiftly thrust said Jedi into another pair. The latter nearly fumbled the pass in sheer surprise.

"Waiting for roll-call, soldier?" Mandalore barked, already sweeping a Zersium rifle back to rightful place. "Fatalistic self-sacrificing gizkas..." he expanded upon the litany without such graces as sotto-voce.

The Iridonian Zabrak scowled, perturbed at having to handle his General in such a disrespectful manner, but decided that the better part of valor was to commence towards their ship.

Or, more realistically, last known location of the vessel.

As if sensing eminent escape of prey, the planet began hacking up death-throes more noxious than the present ochre, scarred-scars facade crumbling like juja cake under a child's fingers. Fortunately for one of them, Mandalore's helmet came equipped with toxin filters even if it made no attempt to window-dress the almost-as-overwhelming stench.

**Tech-turned-Jedi can hold his breath**, the Mandalorian dismissed, certain that the other would go above and beyond considering the bundle in his trust. He took lead, scope alert for potential if (so far) non-emergent foes. Bao-Dur did not contest the use of his armor-enhanced weight in testing the volatility of footholds.

It should have been a comical sight, one battle-clad Mandalorian dancing foot to foot as terrain morphed under powered boots, trailed by one Iridonian rendered two shades paler than nature intended by unflattering lighting and the awkwardness of juggling a tall if slim form.

Insert absence of canned laughter.

"Get your act together, you incompetent murglak," Mandalore snarled into his comlink. "Now is not the time to play hide-and-seek."

"Yeah?" a tinny reply defied, shot through with static that failed to conceal a good dose of panic begging to be unleashed. "I'd like to see you do better, you mindless hunk of plating!"

"If you spent more time on your console and less on insults a street-child could best, we might get off this rock alive!"

"You wanna trade insults? 'Cos I could tell you exac--"

"Atton," Bao-Dur's usually calm voice showed the strain of too many compacted hours. "We have the General. The planet is... unstable. We could really use a lift off right now."

"It's not like I took a Paza'ak break," the disembodied voice whined. A short silence followed, interspersed by words the tech was glad his General was not awake to witness. Of course, he would have been much happier to have her alert and the usual pinion of strength, but half a lifetime of war had taught him to appreciate the small mercies.

Especially when they were all there was.

"Is, is _she_ alright?" the other side of the comlink inquired sans confidence, as if already convinced of the unfavorable answer.

"She won't be if you can't keep your mind on the task, pilot!"

Further barbs were fortunately precluded by the strain of engines overhead. An unpleasantly muggy, grit-filled (and that was the best of the cocktail), yet utterly welcomed breeze whipped around two upright figures and clawed at the robes of a third supine one. The ground on the other hand protested the _Ebon Hawk_'s landing, if the hobble-drop from repulsors to landing struts deserved such a courtesy.

With a groan worthy of a dying Hutt, a large section of the "path", as distinguished by a slight dearth of miasma and armor-slicing boulders, bucked and sheared under unsteady feet. Bao-Dur could not help but stumble, frantic attempts failing to prevent his burden from being thrown aside. It impacted with a sickeningly soft crunch and weakly agonized gasp.

"General!" He was surprised to identify the voice bleeding anguish and horror as his own. Sensory visors painted an indelible, unwelcome detail of robes -- now crimson from more than design -- nestled within fumes encircling a sinking island.

The named shuddered slightly, though it may have been product of wishful imagination. Bao-Dur was however soon unpleasantly aware that he also had himself to worry about, as terra non-firma canted. Conscious thought resumed with himself nearing the clutches of a fissure, with all handholds as treacherous as the ground whence they came.

Peripherally, he grew cognizant of the fact that Mandalore shared his predicament -- or rather topped it, seeing that the other clung literally by fingertips above their soon-to-be-shared abyss. The General's position on the other side of the rising (just not in the right places) rock was probably the most tenable of the trio. She was unlikely to stay that way, but then, neither men had long to suffer from concern.

Shale gave way under Mandalore's hands, provoking an outraged cry. Bao-Dur found himself morbidly fascinated by the preview of his own looming fate, as the other drew an eerie, graceful arc of silver rainbowing down to where no light played.

The soldier who hated war was no stranger to pre-death moments. Unlike how holodrama-fodder preferred it, there was often no time for revelations, or regrets, or anything other than a small surprised **I am dying!**, if even that.

His eyes remained riveted upon the rapidly diminishing blob, once detested enemy, later reluctant comrade-in-arms.

His eyes remained riveted upon the impossible rise of the same blob, sailing through air to a tumble of flailing limbs in the shadow of a presiding _Ebon Hawk_.

Bao-Dur had all of five seconds to wonder if the Mandalorian had concealed a jet-pack somewhere amongst that inordinate amount of armor and weaponry, before finding himself similarly and briefly airborne, then rudely introduced to the ground. He scrabbled desperately to knees and feet, realizing that...

"General!" For the second time in a short long day his own voice was as alien as if emergent from another throat. He was quick enough only to glimpse the lifeless fall of an arm followed by the slump of a beyond-exhausted body. The bit of rock moaned ominously under the redistribution of weight.

"What are you doing, enjoying the show?" Harsh tones signaled the approach of fellow rescuer-turned-rescuee. "Well? Use that Force of yours for something more than empty blather and get her out of there!"

The fledgling Jedi felt all too acutely how he had depleted himself trying to heal his General earlier in their disastrous "escape". "You think I need your instruction for that, butcher? I would do anything, but I can't! My training has not..."

Mandalore growled and shoved roughly past. Bao-Dur vaguely acknowledged the silent approach of Visas Marr, presumably the only crewmember the deadlined patching of the _Hawk_ could grudgingly spare. Atton spat something impatient down the comlink, Visas gasped quietly and extended a Force-probe. Had he been in a right mind, Bao-Dur could have warned her it would bring naught but grief.

The pressure of duty grew, knowing that he should already have gotten onboard, should already be salvaging what he could that they might yet escape the doom this planet gifted visitors with democratic abandon. He should not be playing helpless bystander to the fate of the one leader and _person_ he respected above all others, and yet he was. For the umpteenth time he grappled the notion of crashing the stage, but cold logic dictated that the fog would win the battle before arm's reach.

A literally dead weight would do no more than add to his General's predicament.

The two Jedi were reduced to watching the man who had once lead armies against the very person he now apparently sought to save. Watching, as he made reckless leaps en route to a heap vanishing behind a chartreuse fog.

Some sort of Mandalorian honor thing, that obliged his saving of his savior? Whatever his (ig)noble motives, Bao-Dur felt a first smidgen of gratitude.

As dreaded/expected, Mandalore's landing catalyzed the demise of the ledge, by way of cracks visible even through distance and intervening gas. Bao-Dur's was not the only breath held as the silver form acquired an unceremoniously slung red sash, vaulting off to "safer" ground with painfully few seconds to spare. The rest of the laborious journey was an unsettling sequence of the same.

The Mandalorian brushed away their greetings like Dxun drizzle, stomping up the ramp amidst Atton's rude commentaries on dilly-dally sightseers. He neither paused nor spoke until one comatose burden was deposited onto one examination table, where Mical immediately flocked armed with medpacks and worry.

He could not have explained why, but Bao-Dur rather expected Mandalore to stay for the medic's prognosis. What the Mandalorian did, of course, was to stay true to character and leave with nary a second glance, for all the world acting as if he had just dumped a cylinder into the cargo hold.

"Damned ship of fools," Bao-Dur heard quite distinctly. No less mistakable was the anger, audible and _felt_, stronger, uglier than anything the padawan had ever sensed leak from the man with a mind like a Krayt dragon's den.

"And greatest of all the one who leads them."

The Iridonian shook his head. Perplexing as it was, he had more important things on his toolbox than to pander to one Mandalorian's misplaced emotions. Things like the General, about whom the Disciple had not been able to offer anything more reassuring than an un-reassuring "still alive". Things like seeing to whatever mess it was that Atton and Mical (which was worse -- a flyboy who thought ships ran themselves, or a scholar whose hands had never seen engine oil?) had made of his ship.

Things like ensuring that they might all yet enjoy hope of staying "still alive".

* * *

_interlude_

Flow. Movement, script giving way to dictates of the moment only to cycle back to form. Balance tension and relaxation, alertness and self-immersion. Feel the surrounding space, the Self within that space, the Others sharing it.

The Traveler had begun to train once more.

For a long time since her... loss, she had abhorred violence in all its incarnations. It had not been at all difficult -- the galaxy was full of those incapable of physical offense; what was yet another meek woman about her own way?

But for some reason it had felt _right_ to revisit old ground, even if improvising paths proved more tedious than snow-shoveling Hoth. She had never before realized how thoroughly past skills relied on... something no longer hers to call.

As for the whys of her renewed ventures, perhaps some part had to do with one warrior now healing quite rapidly and apparently less against his will. Re-hoisting the banner on another's behalf, as had not seemed to matter when it concerned her mere self.

The Mandalorian stared with watchful eyes as she went about the slow, graceless business of rediscovering balance without aid of a teacher, reconstructing reflexes tuned to now-closed venues. He did not burst out laughing, as she had half-expected, though it would have been welcome relief from the hostile impatience that had achieved background status these many months. Perhaps there were small perks to be found in that his intolerance was palpable only through cast of face, tone of voice, rude jerks away from and scathing remarks concerning clumsy ministrations.

By whatever mysterious token, her omnipresent observer made no comments and certainly gave no advice. Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that he considered it a good day if he got through it without a single word to his self-styled savior.

Things were a little easier on this next anonymous planet -- meaning, slight reprieve from living hand-to-mouth. There were odd jobs the Traveler's computer hobby paid off rather handsomely on -- decrypting this, programming that, the occasional investigative treat. She patched up on mechanical skills under the watchful eye of a grudging benefactress, was rewarded by slivers from the wily woman's bag of tricks in return for willingness to work long, strange hours.

The Mandalorian turned out to have quite a gift for chemistry, and bartered his services for the occasional medpac or whatnot when she was "not looking". It was a mutual pretense that allowed him to regain a little pride, one the Traveler far from begrudged. His every other sentence (such as they were) no longer constituted a death-threat or variations thereof (quite impressive, actually, that he never quite seemed to repeat himself). By this and many indubitably colorful utterances during the removal of all but the casts on his legs, the Traveler understood that this strange interlude in her uncommon life was, too, drawing to a close.

She felt vaguely wistful. Not for the prospect freedom from a sullen, foul-tempered ingrate she had developed compartmentalization to an art for lest she surrender to insanity (or murder). For the stockholm familiarity enforced by cramped living arrangements. For a sense of purpose, if one that was pale shadow of that which had compassed most her life.

The Traveler had long since admitted that her motives lay mostly in the symbolism between the Mandalorian and herself -- difference being that only one of them could be healed.

"Verda."

Warrior. The Traveler called her patient that, to remind him of the life he seemed so intent on letting slip. He never offered his name; she never asked. She knew instinctively that he would not lie, and it went against ingrained honesty to demand of him something "Aleen" could not return.

"Time to get rid of those leg braces, you'll be happy to hear." She was not one given to overdone cheeriness, but indulged (too often) in a method guaranteed to irk the soon-to-no-longer-be invalid.

"Hmph."

"No no, no need for thanks," she waved airily. "A good deed is its own reward, as you so very well know."

"I'll make sure to recommend you to my next employer. For skills at torture."

She beamed, absurdly glad to hear him speak of the future as did one who would live it. "Thanks, but I cater only to pigheaded, suicidal Mandalorians."

He was quiet even during her amateur (though much-practiced) fiddling with straps and seals, and she wished belatedly to take back that last adjective.

"I am still honor-bound to take your life, girl."

The sudden words startled a jerk from the Traveler. Her patient winced, but remained eerily and disturbingly couth.

"Of course you are," she said cautiously, if with a healthy dose of sardonic humor. "And you'll do it someday, I'm sure. But not today."

The task was complete before response came. "No," said the warrior as she turned away (ceremony held less than little meaning by now), so softly she almost mistook the voice for another's. "Not today."

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

Dawn came, and with it time of leave. The Traveler took only bare essentials with her -- plus one of two hard-earned ship passes -- a small vibroblade, some spare change, computer spikes, slicer's deck. A change of clothes doubled as bedroll and padding for the otherwise knobby backpack.

She suspected eyes at her back even though the other remained immobile, breathing pattern unchanged. She might have lingered a second too long at the threshold. But, in the end, necessity had always dictated her lot in life, and she had known going in that this was to be no more than a brief waypoint.

She stepped forth onto grass and gravel, on behest of a coy destiny.

_end interlude_


	4. A Curtain Falls

**A Curtain Falls**

"--it with Sleeping Beauty there? You said you healed her!" **Damn that crone. Told 'em she was bad news, but does anybody ever listen to Atton Rand? 'Course not. Not that a bunch 'a uppity Jedi would even think of throwing a 'harmless' old wench out. Oh no, they've just gotta wait until--**

"I have done what I can for her physical injuries, yes. But you of all people should know that damage to the psyche is far more dangerous and difficult to tend to." **If only I had spent more time on medical skills and less on the chronicles I might be able to do more. It is difficult to see her so...**

"So we're just gonna hang around and pray to the almighty Force she plans on waking up?" **Force this, Force that, damned Force is what got us in this mess in the first place! Now if I was the one in charge of this shindig... no, it won't be the uniforms, well, not _just_ the...**

"I don't see you coming up with brilliant ideas!" **Loud-mouthed lout. Can't he see that we're all just as worried as he is? Just because he likes to leer at the Exile when he thinks she's not...**

"The General is strong. I am sure that once--" **It is Malachor V, all over again. Her, falling, is still in my nightmares. I cannot...**

**Gah. Soft-minded fools. Their precious Exile will either wake up, or she won't. All the hand-wringing in the galaxy won't...**

**I pledged to give my life for her, but even in that I have failed...**

**What was she thinking running off on her own like that? Told her I'd save her. Didn't even give me a chance...**

**Should've left days ago. Clans still need to be regrouped. Sure not getting done with me here on my...**

**Don't know how she does it. How does she make people, well, love her, just like that? I mean, even Atton...**

**A dark place...**

**I wish...**

**If I could...**

**There must...**

"Not so loud, please!" were words Reni's lips intended; what emerged was an inarticulate groan.

Alright, so "whimper" might be more accurate an adjective.

"Observation: The Master appears to have repaired sufficiently for higher brain function. Clarification: There is ninety-eight-point-five percent probability that the small expulsion of air three-point-seven seconds ago was the Master's attempt to communicate displeasure at being woken up by a gaggle of noisy meatbags. Commentary: Such ineffectual behavior is typical of the meatbag predisposition for wallowing, yet another example of the inferiority of organic--"

"And the other one-point-five?"

"Hey! Who invited _you_ to barge in here?"

"Elaboration: It is one-point-five percent probable that the Master wished termination of the causers of the Master's discomfort. Eager extrapolation: This would include every meatbag currently in the room. The ensuing carnage would alert the remaining meatbags on the ship, who would then rush in, who would then fall within stated parameters, who would then too be terminated. Reluctant admission: The Master has ordered me never to act on projections that may be wishful thinking on my part."

"Heh. I can see why she keeps you around, rust-bucket."

"How can you joke at a time like this, you Mandalorian schu--"

"Please." This time the "expulsion of air" managed to imitate a word, or so her own ears claimed.

"Master Renani?" A large hand felt her forehead. "Are you in pain?"

Cool tendrils of Force washed in, shoring the Exile with sufficient strength to peel off the number of voices in her head to one. "Thanks," she whispered, then began the unenviable task of prying open gummy, heavy eyelids.

A number of blinks were required to render the nearest blob to something resembling blond locks framing concerned blue orbs. If the visage should hold significance, however, no-one was informing her of it.

Darker blobs wobbled into peripheral view. "Hey, angel. Done with your beauty sleep?"

**Mical**, the word swam into mind. Another infusion of warmth later, **Atton**.

The scuffle of feet filtered in, accompanied by vague redistribution of light and shadow.

"I felt--"

"Is the General--"

The voices fell silent in the same simultaneity with which they had spoken.

Events floated lazily about, random as any school of daggert but for a niggling pattern as slippery as said fish. A few more droplet-words plinked on distended consciousness, each urging expression.

"Mand'l're?" Her tongue fumbled over itself. "M'rra? Drr--"

"We're all looking better than you, Jedi. Just get some rest, huh? Well, some _more_ rest."

She had not much choice in the matter, as no amount of willpower prevented sight from narrowing to a vanishing slit.

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

The universe was vastly more cooperative the second time it dropped by. While the transition was still more fuzzy than usual, the Exile did manage to greet a solid, sane world. Silence was interrupted only by stock medbay bleeps; lighting was easy on out-of-practice eyes. In fact, she felt close to hundred percent of the extraordinary wellbeing that was the one thing the Force did not begrudge its servants -- weak tools being worse than none in games the stakes of which it played.

The only thoughts echoing an already-crowded head were her own, but it was still with the caution of the once-burned that the Jedi probed the aether, seeking to place herself in present reality. Moments later, she swung to feet in the unhesitant manner of those who took health for granted. A small smile chased around her lips.

"Redundant observation: Master, you have regained motor control! I do hope that none of your functionality has been impaired by the eleven-point-eight days you have remained offline. Derisive report: The Master's meatbags have demonstrated considerably sub-standard functionality (even for meatbags) in the interim. It is my fond wish to never repeat the experience."

"Thanks for the get-well card, HK. And don't call my friends 'my' meatbags."

"Supplication: But, Master! You have already objected to 'the Master's meatbag slaves'."

"Just call them my friends, okay?"

"Protest: But Master, the number of beings the Master assigns to 'friend' category makes such a classification completely ineffectual. Furthermore, the on-board meatbags have evinced a level of loyalty most unusual in meatbags of the none-slave variety. My logic circui--"

"Alright, alright! Don't wake the ship up."

"Observation: The _Ebon Hawk_, while superior in design to the meatbag physiology, lacks the ability to be 'woken up'."

"You _are_ a protocol droid, HK. Or was that a joke peeking out?"

"Statement: Master, it is an established fact that I am a protocol droid of superior design, amongst numerous, to put it delicately, 'other' skills. My colloquy circuits have needless to say parsed the sentence as the paraphrase 'don't wake the ship's meatbag slaves up'. However, my contextual circuits failed to understand why the Master, as a meatbag of improved logical ability (such as meatbags go), is not currently rallying the Master's meatbags to more productive activities than the copious amounts of moping and sulking of late."

A chuckle escaped despite oft-broken resolutions not to encourage the assassin droid's... esoteric sense of humor. "What would I do without you, HK?"

"Projection: Eighty-percent likelihood dictates that the current Master would not have been alive to concern the Master's meatbag self about the loss, Master."

"A whole twenty-percent chance of surviving on my own, HK? I'm flattered. Okay, go do whatever it is you do on your down-time, provided it does not include unnecessary violence. And no, we are _not_ going over the definition of 'unnecessary violence' yet again. And don't wake the crew up. They have more than earned their rest."

"Resignation: Yes, Master."

Reni followed the droid out on equally silent feet. The corridor was too at "nighttime" illumination, replete with _Peregrine_ renditions of everyday objects. She thought she caught a flash of silver vanishing around a corner, identified a familiar subdued presence, but it may well have been imagination or, otherwise, the other's decision to elude. Shrugging, she set about re-orientating herself.

Whimsy took the Exile round the scenic route. More than once she found herself trailing fingers over scuff marks and instrument panels, as if nostalgia could be absorbed through pores in skin. The faithful vessel had witnessed much; no Force required to deduce it would see much more. Kr-- for a while she had been tempted to take off on it and bury herself in some remote, Force-free planet, but recognized it now as a passing fancy. Rant, rail, or whine, the former General could no more easily give up a sense of purpose than she could food and air.

That realization, more than renewed connection to the Force, more than assurances from friends and foe alike, told the Exile she had healed from the first destruction of Malachor V -- inasmuch as a wound of that magnitude could be soothed.

It was not the only skeleton-closet she put to order in the course of otherwise aimless meanderings. Cockpit, where echoes of Atton's laughter over her ignorance of card games, or actually _any_ games, lingered. Security room, the least lived-in for the precise reason of for-now-quiescent banks of monitors. Machine room, the faint smell of charde; the creamy cool taste would forever be Mira's pouring out bits of personal history together with the unfamiliar beverage. Main hold, where three heads -- gold, silver, black -- had stood for hours pondering the fate of a misleadingly compressed galaxy, the holo-chart being barely her height in diameter. The bristly sphere that had presided over their "amateurish dabbling" was nowhere to be found, a fact for some concern.

The Exile pressed on, avoiding the dormitories lest she inadvertently rouse those whose myriad concerns and expectations she often felt ill-equipped to do well by, and particularly right now. Cargo hold, a personal refuge no stranger would suspect from a first glance of the barren, impersonal space. Engine room, where T3-M4 greeted her with a barrage of soft, concerned bleeps that brought back hours of peace immersed in the logical beauty of its circuits, basked by the pulse of an online hyperdrive.

Hangar-cum-work-area, Bao-Dur's domain amongst droids and wiring and parts-of-ship that she had never even imagined existed -- all those things he so loved, and understood better than anyone she had ever known. A sanctuary, where they had spent amicable hours tinkering over this or that, teacher and student refreshingly reversed, while a small spherical extension of the tech's will bobbed (anxiously, the Exile had always thought) between them.

The tech had laughed, once, when she confessed to leeching off his calm presence, and responded with a simple, "Anytime, General." The unadorned support had brought tears to her eyes then, threatened to do so now.

"You really never do sleep, do you?"

Bao-Dur dropped a multitool -- a mind-boggling event in itself. "General!" A frown drew his brows. "You should not be up."

"Actually, according to HK's 'brief' summary of events, I should have been up eleven days ago."

"Malachor V has never been kind to either of us. You, most of all."

The Exile came to perch at the edge of his workbench, a niche as comforting as an old blanket. "Don't belittle your pain, old friend," Reni said softly. "How are you?"

"Worrying about the troops again?" He shook his head, voice rich with mirth, and the wistful drift of her thoughts sidled to wondering, how could others miss the sheer detail in what they termed "bland"?

"We are the ones worried about you, General."

"You are all much more than 'troops' to me, as you well know. And I'm fine. Now stop avoiding the subject."

He studied her carefully, extended a probe of a tool he was still not accustomed to having. She allowed him enough access to her bodily workings to prove the verity of "fine" before gently batting him away.

Did Iridonians blush? There was no telling in the present light. "Sorry. That was rude of me, General."

"It was a skillful -- and kind -- use of the Force, actually," Reni praised. She let the subsequent silence repeat her original question.

"You are incredibly persistent, General, but you know that." She waited patiently through his self-examination. "Malachor V was... destroyed."

She nodded, suffering a pang but no great surprise.

"I... instructed my Remote to activate the mass-shadow generator. We do not know what happened, but it" -- wry humor shielding pain -- "evidently succeeded. With the _Ebon Hawk_ as it was, Mira and you missing, nobody realized that G0-T0 had gone missing as well. What happened down there... I can only speculate."

The Exile did not speak, but laid a hand on his arm, soldiers commiserating fallen comrades.

"I'll be fine, General. Only a droid, after all, huh. Guess I'll be like everyone else now without that floating lump hanging around."

"You don't have to pretend to me, Bao-Dur. I, I miss it too."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Throughout the War, throughout this journey, you have always been with me. Bao-Dur and his Sphere. Guess I started assuming it was a fundament of the universe."

The bud of a smile rewarded her. "Didn't think you paid attention to techs, back then."

"You were the best. Still are. You didn't think it was easy, keeping a prize tech out of the greedy clutches of all those other Generals and Admirals, did you?"

The smile bloomed, and Reni answered in kind.

"So, General," he picked up after a companionable silence. "You have made your plans." It was not a question.

The Exile bowed her head, the inevitable settling around her shoulders like Salta's globe.

"We don't have to talk about it right now," filled her with immense gratitude. "All I ask is that you take me with you."

Reni could not meet his eyes, amber orbs that had looked upon her at her worst, her best -- and some incredible how never lost faith. "Bao-Dur..."

"You cannot deny that you will need help, wherever your journey takes you. And I have come too far to be able to rest without seeing it, you, through, General."

"I cannot justify taking you int--"

"Please. I have never asked anything of you, General. I ask this."

The trump card. How could she not...? How could she...? Reni pressed hands to temples, as if that had ever been effectual at baffling decisions. Not now. She knew that a damning (either way) choice would eventually be made, just not... now.

"I, I will consider it, Bao-Dur."

He sighed, but granted her temporary reprieve.

* * *

The silence was deafening. And then it was not.

"You can't just dump u--"

"But, but I thou--"

"Is this wise, Mas--"

"Why did I think you hero-typ--"

General, Exile, Jedi Master, and whatever else was sewn on her robes of the day, held up a warding hand. By some miracle, it halted the deluge.

Words, words. Words had ever been her allies, her enemies, her curse. How could words "sorrow", "joy", "regret", "pride" -- as ephemeral as the breath that speaks them -- hope to front for the agonies behind?

Renani understood very well why the Jedi eschewed strong emotion. Contrary to popular opinion, they were not exceptions in that regard. Every leader, military or civilian, learns the hard way the lesser evil in feeling too much versus too little. Every teacher, every parent lives a hundred moments where emotional distance is or should be applied. Every person draws around them veils of unfeeling to lubricate day-to-day interaction.

Of course, the "try" is often irreconcilably different from the "do".

"You all know that what the universe wants of us is rarely what we want of the universe, my friends." Reni glanced around the not-so-small circle they made around the deactivated holo-galaxy, reading dissension from even the Miraluka's typically overly-acquiescent face. They were not going to make this easy on her... not that she deserved it, after having used their talents so assumingly for so long.

"Atton," she turned to one of the earliest faces on the journey. "You have much to learn of being a Jedi, but in turn, the Jedi could learn much from you."

"Are you kidding? You want me to become one of those Code-spouting, robe-wearing monks? I said I'd help you, but I'm drawing a line right there, sister!"

"I'm not looking to force anything on you, Atton, certainly not the Jedi Order. Just pointing out that there are a lot of lost souls" -- _like you_ went unspoken -- "who could use your help. You know what it's like out there for Force sensitives. Why not help the new Order out? You'll get a say in the future of the Jedi, keep them from making the same mistakes by becoming too insular. You could teach them to play Paza'ak."

"What, Atton Rand and a bunch of snot-nosed, whiny padawans?"

"If you want to do something else, I'll help however I can. I, I'm sorry I can't leave you the _Ebon Hawk_..."

"You'll need a pilot for her, then."

They both knew that Reni was a qualified pilot. She bowed her head, but injected a note of finality. "I'm sorry, Atton." In a weak attempt to soften the rejection, "Besides, you'd hate where we're going. I doubt they've even heard of Paza'ak there, either."

His silent glower warned her that they were far from done, but promised that the continuation would be less public. **One sort-of down, a legion more to go.** Breakfast caffa yet cycled with the air, but the memory of it had already telescoped to unrecallably long ago.

"Mira, you have always found what others could not. Perhaps you could find a place with the Jedi? There are many out there to be found, people like you whom the old Order overlooked, or considered too old to train."

"I, well, I suppose I've got nothing better to do." It was as much as a concession as the bounty-hunter was likely to make, but Reni thought -- hoped -- she'd detected a glimmer of interest in a goal beyond the next credit-chip, a seedling of resolve to carry it out. **May your shade forgive me, if by this I have signed your death warrant...**

She swallowed, but there was nothing to be done but press on.

"Mical, the new Order will need a new Council. Now that the Jedi Masters are... gone, few remain with the knowledge and dedication to gather a new one. You told me once that the Jedi are important players in the galaxy, my friend. Will you not help rebuilding them?"

"I, I am flattered that you think me capable," the Disciple wore a look of utter surprise. "But I am no a leader, Master Renani. My place is--"

"Wherever you choose it to be," Reni interrupted with a smile against the sting. "I am no leader either -- no, hear me out. If you call me a leader, then a leader is one who sees what is necessary and carries it out. If you so choose, Mical, you will be a great leader."

"I, I..." His throat bobbed, hard. "I will do as you ask."

"No, not for me! You have spent many years studying the Jedi, from far more aspects than others have had the foresight or ability to, Disciple. You saw how they succeeded, how they failed. What do you believe you should do?"

He did not want to lead, that she saw. It was what gave her confidence that he would strive for the ideals that many a Council member had thought to find in formulae, and in so doing prove an inspiration to all.

"I think... I begin to see why you dislike being called 'Master'."

Reni flashed him a smile for the rare show of humor.

"Visas. You are free, you know. You have been free for a very long time. Darth Nihilus never truly caged you, though he tried to make you believe it. It is time to use that freedom for yourself. Live by your own choices."

"Then I choose to remain with you."

The Exile winced. "I'm afraid that's one choice I can't allow."

"But, but I pledged to you my life! I can give nothing more..."

"Then give yourself a chance, my friend. Give your life to Visas Marr, and no other."

"But I... I don't know how."

"I am sorry, more sorry than you know" -- the General's voice cracked as she took another glance around, the otherwise casual act made poignant by awareness of the limited supply of such -- "to abandon you like this. All of you. But I abandon you amongst friends; they will not forsake you. The Jedi Order will welcome your help, as well, should you choose that path. But most importantly, you need to be your own Master, Visas."

"I will... I will try."

Reni let loose a -- as it turned out -- premature breath of relief.

"Mandalore--"

"I am going. You seek Revan. I intend to face her. Either I go with you, or I go on my own." The shrug of armor-clad shoulders was deliberately nonchalant, as if it meant little to him either way.

Why had she not anticipated this conversation to be the most difficult? "But your clans--"

"Will survive, as Mandalore have always survived."

"But the regrou--"

"Bralor and Xarga are competent enough not to make a mess of it."

"But you wan--"

"I'm not _discussing_ this with you, Exile."

Surely the Force would forgive one instance of frivolous use, say -- hypothetically of course -- to shift the molecules of traction that kept all that heavy plating upright against the bulkhead.

Reni gave in to a sigh, pinched the bridge of her nose. Of course it had to be the one man not obligated to her by whatever modicum of authority others granted. The one man with the resources to significantly delay her efforts, should she try to embark upon it plus juggle impending pursuit.

Said man took her exasperated chuff as signal of consent, or maybe he already considered it given. The Exile readied and let loose a particularly venomous glare in the Mandalore's direction, and beseeched the Force for the others not to take his response as cue to topple her carefully built castle of words.

"And I, General?"

So snuck in the moment she _had_ been dreading.

"Bao-Dur..." How come fortifying breaths never really fortified? "If I were stronger, I would not let you follow me into another Malachor V, old friend. I have already asked of you things that none should ever ask of another... But you are right, I am not strong enough to walk alone where I must go. And I think I'll soon have a small mutiny on my hands if T3 and HK had to rely on the skills of an 'inferior meatbag'. The _Ebon Hawk_ might just decide to call it quits..."

Babbling did remarkably little to cover up the sudden surge of ill-feeling from all sides. Well, all except Bao-Dur, whose gentle aura was tinged with relief, and the enigmatic-as-ever Mandalore. Reni caught herself on the edge of flinching from the almost-physical waves of jealousy and hurt no amount of foresight could have prepared her for. She shot an apologetic look at the target of a good portion of the animosity.

"It is not weakness to admit that even you need help once in a while, General."

The Exile appreciated his attempt at levity, but "It is, when you know how much that help could cost the other. Horrible as it sounds, it is always easier to send strangers into carnage."

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

Malachor V was sufficiently far off the beaten path that the journey to Coruscant granted the _Ebon Hawk_'s crew several weeks' hiatus. If the others suspected the nominal pilot of rigging a less-than-efficient course, they all viewed the act with varying degrees of favor.

Even if the overall mood was subdued, almost sullen.

"Guess I should be, be getting used to this, 'Master'." Atton managed to impart the title with a sarcastic flair that was all Atton, despite pants for breath and a currently prone position he showed no inclination of rising from. His attitude had grown significantly... darker in the days since The Talk, a fact which gnawed at Reni more so for her inability to do anything about it.

Silver beams were flicked off and their emitters holstered in one fluid, unthought motion. The Jedi stared down at her student, slowly retracting her hand when he ignored it and instead rolled onto his side. The amount of dirt he had to be picking up made Renani's rather fastidious -- a surprising trait, considering all her professions -- skin crawl in empathetic revulsion.

"After all," he continued, impervious to such mortal concerns as soil and exfoliation and the civilizations of bacteria that _lived_ in such things, "this is why you're ditching me with that bunch of do-gooders, isn't it?"

Reni blinked, all concerns performing an abrupt hundred-and-eighty. After all, the man had only systematically brushed off all attempts at approaching The Issue for, what was it now, four days?

"'This'?" **Confusion, 'males' be thy name...** not that the Exile had much more success with those of her own gender.

"Oh come on. So it's supposed to be hush-hush and all, but everybody knows you're haring off to face the Sith. Can't have a clumsy padawan tripping you up there, can you?"

**Then again, sometimes confusion is preferable to comprehension.** "Atton, your concentration's just been off because of your... resentment. And anyway I am _not_ leaving you behind because I lack confidence in your ability to protect yourself, or me for that matter."

"Oh yeah? Then mind explaining to me just why I'm yesterday's news just like that" -- he snapped his fingers -- "sister? And don't bother with all that 'restore the Jedi Order' bull. The others may buy it, but I sure don't give two hoots whether there's still gonna be a dustbowl full of 'saber-toting 'saviors of the galaxy' around in a couple year's time. And oh while you're at it, don't waste your breath on how big of an asset 'Atton Rand' can be to your precious Jedi, either. You don't set a thuvasaur to guard hatchlings, then come back and expect to have nuna to harvest!"

It seemed logical to follow the sinking of her stomach to a seat on the deck, grime or no. And, though Reni was aware that her calm only made Atton that much more angry, the alternative -- a full-blown rant on why couldn't they understand, why couldn't they all see how difficult this was for her too! -- was unacceptable.

"I'm only going to say this once." So, perhaps she was not as calm as she had thought. "My reasons have nothing to do with your skills. Or lack of them! This isn't some joyride I can just drag friends on. There are things out there -- not all or even worst of them physical -- that nobody, _nobody_, should ever have to meet. You have seen enough demons in your time, Atton. Why are you so eager to see some more?"

"Because I promised to protect you, damnit! You, you were supposed to be, to be..."

"Your atonement?" Reni stated gently, when it became apparent that he would not be the one to.

He jerked angrily away, flipping onto his back. "The witch was right. I am a fool."

"No, she was wrong about that." She nudged him insistently on the shoulder until he directed annoyed dark eyes her way. "You may pretend to be a fool, Atton Rand, but you are not one."

"That name doesn't mean sith-spit."

Names. They all had so many of them, didn't they? Reni held the dubious honor of boasting the most, but even T3-M4 tucked a small universe under the totem "Droid, utility model extraordinaire".

"That name means just as much as you make of it. You have a whole life in front of you to live, Atton. Don't throw it away on has-beens."

Silence.

"I can't be your atonement, Atton. I can't redeem you. Only you can."

How trite that sounded, how stock a phrase. How familiar that doomed route, one she had wasted years upon years following... only to find that there are no ends on a rainbow.

"And don't brush me off, because I _know_."

He turned to snap at her presumption, but must have caught something in her expression because the words never made it to birth.

The next shift surprised her, though she knew somehow that it shouldn't have. "I, I never had a chance, had I?"

The Master gaped for the second time that day.

"You know. Aw, c'mon. Even the Jedi aren't _that_ ignorant, even if you're supposed to be above us base masses and all. The lust card won less games than one might expect, given that you're reputedly a celibate order."

Reni had no answer but a flaming face.

"I guess I'm just... not your type, eh?" A wistful smile crossed his face.

"I-I don't, I didn't, I mean, t-t-there hasn't been time to think about those, uh, things." Pathetic, even to her own ears. She dared style herself a battle-tested General? Idiot. Who was the Fool, now?

"Su-u-ure," Atton drew out, clearly dismissing her stutter as an attempt to spare him an unpleasant truth. He sat up so abruptly that only the Jedi's lightning reflexes saved them from collision, a fact over which he seemed almost disappointed. "I guess this is where we do the 'friends' speech, huh, angel?"

She rose to her feet in tandem with him, wishing desperately that she knew how to ease his pain. Denial -- the easy route, the safe route, the familiar route -- inevitably led to this, but self just could not seem to learn this particular lesson. "Atton..."

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he said, more for her comfort than his. "Some things, you just can't force."

The oblique reference to his "talent" for assuming emotions went in like a lightsaber.

"I'll just... just give me some time, okay?"

Since when had every conversation with her companions become minefields unto themselves? She knew not how long she had stood mutely in Atton's wake, but was snapped rudely out of it by a gravelly voice, so near she literally jumped from it.

"I don't see why you waste time on that di'kut."

Why was she surprised? She had acknowledged a frightening tendency to overlook _his_ presence during her training sessions. She had (oh how Kr-- her old mentor would have railed) blithely, stupidly trusted the man. To have heard -- _and stayed for_ -- all that... he might as well have rooted through her underclothes.

Fury snapped the Exile's spine to rigid. "That was a private moment, Mandalore. One you might have had enough honor to respect."

No outward response, but Reni caught a brief flash of... regret.

She bee-lined for the 'fresher.

* * *

"--and this _huge_ lady barges in. I mean, huge! Could've sworn she was a Hutt, except that, hey, does anybody know if there are Hutt ladies?"

Bao-Dur hid a small grin. Atton was back to his old irrepressible self, even if it was in some subtle way quieter, less flippant, and the tech would catch him glancing the General with the look of a man who had lost something he wasn't quite sure he'd wanted before then. Still, he was unexpectedly cordial about it, hence the Zabrak had no quarrel with his issues.

So far.

The whole crew -- with the exception of T3-M4, who was hardly built for such things, and HK-47, who had threatened to fry a circuit in "horrified protest" -- were currently employed in the grunt work of hauling parts Bao-Dur had slotted on the _Ebon Hawk_'s repair list. The planet was a small, heavily industrialized dump far from the Core but not quite into the Outer Rim, which made for relatively cheap (functional) parts available through various obscure local companies. Not Czerka, which soothed at least some of the conservationist tech's sensibilities.

He had expressed various concerns to the General over facing whatever they were going to face (her pained aura discouraged the most insensitive from pushing for details) with just a patchwork job, but she had smiled sadly and said that credits were credits and there were only so many to go around. She had further expressed confidence that a patchwork job by Bao-Dur "leaves in the hyperdust" a rehaul by most mechanics.

He figured he would just have to see to it being such. End of story.

Another concession to their monetary handicap was that, instead of hiring workers and transport, the crew had "elected" to shuttle the parts to the ship themselves. That was to say, the General had slapped her hands on her lap after a particularly annoying session with another credit-counting paper-pusher, declared "Fine. We'll just do it ourselves", and marched to the cargo area amidst stares and open mouths -- not the least of which were those credited to the _Ebon Hawk_'s crew.

The rest was a foregone conclusion, since whatever task the General set her mind to, others inescapably found themselves adopting. With a significantly time-wasting banter-about of grumbles, whines, and wheedles, to be sure, but complying all the same. Bao-Dur tucked another smirk away as his General's clear, crisp voice barked out instructions from behind the corner of the neutrino hybridizer she was holding up (with a touch of the Force, he was convinced).

And the General wondered why he and everybody else followed her: it was "only" the natural order of the universe.

"I believe I am... thankful my old Master did not think to require such... activities of me." Visas' melodic, little-used tones startled the tech out of ruminations on the less-than-stellar reliability of neutrino hybridizers compared to unfortunately more expensive sublight drive components. Atton's loud complaints had consistently failed at the same task, having been tuned out pretty much from the start.

"Hah. What'd I tell you? Exile's a dictator under all that soft gooey... well, whateveritis." Mira. The diminutive redhead was all but invisible under a bulky if relatively lightweight stash of carbonite inserts, though her voice rang clearly enough around the obstruction. "Hint, hint!"

The General laughed, a rare sound that would have made the day worthwhile on its own merit. "Alright, alright, you win. Let's call a committee on the footwork for moving... aha! One set of alluvial dampers, coming straight up."

A chorus of groans demonstrated their reciprocal enthusiasm -- actually, two groans from the more vocal members of their party. Bao-Dur might have been tempted.

Still, it was a good day, one of too few remaining before the _Ebon Hawk_ was scheduled for another peril but with painfully reduced company. The Iridonian had lost much when the Rim worlds fell, yet the General had a habit of transforming those around her to family.

These were sensations he had thought forever closed to him, and now refused to contemplate giving up.

Of course, a universal feature of families was the unavoidable, if usually petty, rivalries and conflicts. Except for the chilly gulf between the General and Mandalore, though, their friendships seemed to have weathered the latest squall with grace. Bao-Dur respected his General's privacy too much to pry, but the one seemed only to watch the other with perplexed wariness these days.

The tech was glad that the other four no longer spoke to him with (overly) jealous undertones, instead coming around to view, as he did, the General's singling him out as her only concession to herself. He wished often that she would allow herself more leeway in "selfish" things... but would he truly hold her in as high a regard if she did?

_Alert!_

All philosophical ramblings were cut short by the unpleasant jolt of a Force-warning. Bao-Dur hesitated for a fraction of a second before abandoning the electrophoto receptors in his care in favor of lightsabers. He winced as the fragile components crunched on impact, the package evidently having struck ground at just the wrong angle.

No coincidences within the Force, eh?

No time to count the credits in that climactic sound.

They were being swarmed -- quite literally -- by assassin droids. HK-50's, to nobody's surprise beyond the fact of the attack itself.

"Aw, damn."

Bao-Dur had no time to appreciate the pithiness of that sentence. Assassin droids' preferred weaponry were blaster rifles, and blaster rifles had at least twenty-five meters in attack range. A lightsaber, even Force-thrown, had considerably less reach... and, no less importantly, left the wielder unprotected while engaged.

Of course, judging from the dazzle of light winking from -- how many? Twenty? Thirty? -- muzzles, whether his lightsaber was in or out of hand may well prove a moot point in the recent future.

The tech had barely scoped out the math before a sheet of deck plating -- expensive, necessary, _heavy_ deck plating -- crashed down before his eyes. His rather paler-than-usual reflection stared back not ten centimeters from his nose.

"Sorry, Bao-Dur!" The General yelled above the sizzle of blaster bolts on metal.

He shook off the inane question of whether "sorry for lack of warning? Proximity? Cost?" and verified that each of his comrades were hunched behind some form of impromptu shielding, most of which had only been magicked seconds in time.

"They're only gonna come 'round the _Hawk_, you know!"

"Gee, thanks for the obvious," Mira grumbled in Atton's direction.

The General ignored their pre-(in-?)battle banter and stared intently at the sheeting, as if she could see through it. And perhaps she could -- Visas, she'd mentioned, had shown her how the Miraluka perceived things.

A tremendous clang later, the rate of under-fire heating of their shelters slowed down.

"If we, uh, link up," the General sounded calm, if rather tired, "Visas can show us where to Force-fling the cargo containers." Her voice winced. "Sorry, Bao-Dur."

The tech shook his head. The loss of irreplaceable equipment was not what concerned him at the moment.

Much.

"What do yo--"

"I have nev--"

"Link up wi--"

"I, I am not--"

"Trust me?"

It seemed to Bao-Dur that the General made eye-contact with each of her fledgling Jedi in that brief eternity.

There was no question of consent from his quarter.

Atton was the last to nod; the General held his eyes a fraction longer before returning the gesture.

Once, Bao-Dur had witnessed his General murmuring to T3-M4 as they walked together along some place -- the details of which had faded in memory. The almost hypnotized cadence of her words, the trancelike rhythm of her steps, the flood tide of Force around her -- remained as fresh as morning dew. Moving meditation, she named it, with a small shrug in apology of a self-coined term. He had asked half-jokingly if she could do the same while conversing with him, and she had answered impishly, "Are you saying I could bore myself to sleep, Bao-Dur?"

At the moment, the Iridonian thought he perhaps understood a little more of the state she had been in. Their current situation was far from calm, but the patter of blaster fire droned from ears into mind, lulling, inviting...

_**Bao-Dur.**_

A touch of spring sky. Clear, sharp, warm with a hint of potential frost. He drew a giddy breath and recognized _her_. Neither invading nor beckoning, neither thoughts nor feelings. Just... there.

_**Visas.**_

A horizon. Shades of shapes beyond ken, stretching inwards and out. A boggling visage that constricted dizzyingly into Now, then smaller yet into Here.

_**Mical.**_

A ground. Steady, watchful, the grasp of a thousand leaves of a thousand events.

_**Mira.**_

A stream. Perpetual motion, yielding, taking, a creature for which the journey was the end.

_**Atton.**_

Bao-Dur waited for the next mesmerizing rendition. Quite patiently, thought it was admittedly rather difficult to feel anything beyond tranquil. Briefly, he wondered how the others saw him... but thought was a lazy animal in this place.

_**Atton?**_

_**Alright already. Sheesh.**_

A shield. A crackle of unseen energy, interchangeably lethal or benign.

So much like Telos. Explanation visited -- **we see what is meaningful to us**. His own? The General's? The Others'? It did not matter.

_**Focus. Visas...**_

...and they sunk like stones, the horizon contracting until Bao-Dur thought he might succumb to claustrophobia. And then there was no time to wonder at the six mirror-images that were corporeal selves, as movement begged attention as movement did of most sentients. Will o' wisps that seemed far too insubstantial to damage, until two flickered and waned under a boulder. Atton's handiwork, he imagined.

It might have been a rout, but the wisps caught on quickly, avoiding rock-strewn regions, making jagged unpredictable dashes as they converged. Add to that the edge of acute awareness that their somas were immobile and prone in this detached state, and Bao-Dur saw why Jedi did not, to his meager knowledge, fight like this.

At least he did not sweat, or the sensation was on hold if he did.

He only hoped to have a body to receive it in later.

One enemy wandered too close, then another. Unsuccessful in scouring for projectiles, Bao-Dur wondered a trifle frantically if pushing one of Their bodies out of line-of-fire would shatter the Connection.

The nearest wisp flickered out. The other followed.

Confusion wasted precious seconds before a seventh faint Presence registered -- knife-edged obsidian -- and he forced his attention back on the job. They had eliminated roughly two-thirds of the enemy, but the rest were closing in too fast, too close.

_**Must... get back before... too tired.**_

The dream dissolved even as Bao-Dur reached reflexively out to retain it. For long moments he blinked (eyes? He had eyes?) and rediscovered the art of breathing. Every movement took a second too long, as if his brain had forgotten how to execute them independent of conscious direction.

"'Sabers, now!"

The soldier thought instinctively to obey the command, but the hands were considerably less supportive of the notion... a disconnect similar to Bao-Dur's first experiences with his artificial limb. Two closely-spaced blasts effectively returned them to their senses -- at the unfortunate price of a useless shoulder and **pain** blaring through newly rediscovered nerves.

Bao-Dur gritted his teeth, spared a brief thought for how easily he had grown accustomed to having the Force to heal his injuries, how annoying the lack of mental strength was to do that **right about now**. Then he jumped into the fray of light and metal.

"Yaaagghh!" Mical brought his single green blade to bear across one grey "neck", saving the tech the effort of his frontal assault on the same droid, now rather useless minus central processing unit. A terse nod of thanks was all he spared before whirling, ears primed for more revealing blaster fire.

Only pants and some scattered moans -- purely "meatbag" sounds -- filled the air.

"Is everybody alright?"

"This is the fifth fripping jacket I've had to recycle since Nar Shaddaa!"

"Glad your vocal cords took no damage, Atton. Wish I could say the same for the rest o--"

"Perhaps we could cut the chit-chat and move to a more _defensible_ location?"

"I do not sense any more threats, Mandalore. But perhaps we should."

Bao-Dur scanned the area to locate the sole voice other than his own that had not spoken, found her leaning against a hole-ridden container. "General?" Slight trembling, transmitted to a lightsaber blade (the other hand was occupied in keeping her upright), a nasty-looking but probably superficial burn (she did not favor it _too_ much -- but kept in mind was that she had a bad habit of downplaying).

"Just tired. Gettin' old and all," the General said, the last aimed at Mira together with a wobbly grin.

He raised an eyebrow, but choose not to comment.

"You are right about the droids, Visas." The General's eyes returned to focus, after a quick Force-scan he would never know where she found the energy to perform. The hiss deactivating her lightsaber masked a sigh her lips described. "But I think we've just opened up a whole new can of threats. Of the clerical kind."

With utmost reluctance, Bao-Dur turned to face the horrors her nod indicated at a vector somewhere behind his still-aching shoulder.

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

"It could be worse," Bao-Dur offered. "The _Ebon Hawk_ could have been damaged. Well," -- he had to append -- "further damaged."

Did that sound as unconvinced as it felt?

Probably, since five pairs of eyes turned as one to bestow near-identical stares of disbelief. One veil and one helmet turned as well, but Force Sight was not in Bao-Dur's arsenal. The tech secured his arms about his chest before they could perform a defensive rise.

"Ri-i-ight. And since we were already running on juma-juice and good intentions, that is an incredibly huge blessing... how?"

The General sighed, something she had been doing too often of late. "It's not Bao-Dur's fault, Atton. None of this is anybody's fault."

"Yeah? I'm sure rust-bucket over there has quite a few things to say about his clones."

"Redundant reiteration: The HK-50 units are vastly inferior copies made at a time when this unit was... incapacitated. Exclamation: It would have been quite impossible, even had my logic circuits malfunctioned to such a degree as to condone such a ridiculous act, for me to have overseen their production while I was scattered in pieces around the galaxy, mentally-impaired self-mutilated meatbag!"

Although quite impressively creative in its interpretation of "droid honesty", HK-47 could nevertheless not utter an outright lie. "Self-mutilated" caught the interest of every person in the room. Atton had certainly not missed the insult, had grown dangerously white with anger.

"That's enough, HK!" the General snapped. "We will discuss your lack of respect -- and your clones -- later." Her next words were clearly for the rest of them. "Right now we have more pressing issues, none of which will be solved by infighting."

Insert moment of guilty silence.

"Was, was everything we purchased lost, Master Renani?" Visas made atypical contribution.

Bao-Dur rubbed his neck as his General's querying eyebrow turned every regard towards him. "We did save some things, mainly those already onboard before the firefight. But the companies retracted them all as compensation for... auxiliary damage."

"Auxiliary" being quite the misnomer. Everybody winced.

"We are," -- the Disciple hesitated -- "lucky, I suppose, that they did not demand further reparations. Which would have been impossible for us to make."

"How would you rate our chances against starvation, Mical?" The General's question visibly startled the historian, although whether due the gallows humor or plain unexpectedness, Bao-Dur could not tell.

"Well, uh, we're not that badly off. And there's still plenty in the cargo hold."

"And you estimate it will last...?"

A thoughtful interlude. "Two months, maybe three. But... should we be worried, Master?"

"No, no, probably not," the General murmured almost to herself. Then Bao-Dur found himself once more the target of attention. "Can the _Ebon Hawk_ fly?"

A frown crossed the tech's face as where she was leading pieced itself together. "Much like we could before landing here. I would recommend against it, seeing that we would be hard-pressed to defend ourselves in a fight. But we should be able to make it to Coruscant."

The General nodded, as if his assessment had just confirmed a thought. "I think," she began slowly, then picked up, "with G0-T0 gone, and the bounty-hunters... no longer an issue, there is relatively little risk of a space attack. The HK-50s' efforts don't seem to have reached the level of hijacking a starship" -- everybody side-glanced at the older model -- "yet. And if we plot a straight course to Coruscant, make a minimum number of stops along the way..."

She spread a hand in a gesture reminiscent of card games the galaxy over. "Our only other option would seem to be trying to pick up enough odd jobs to fix the _Hawk_. Out here," -- a wry smile crossed her face -- "well, let's just say, I'm sure you all had better retirement plans."

The strain in the room ebbed a little; Bao-Dur had not noticed before then how on-edge he had been. A chorus of nods voted for the "run for it" plan. Not all that surprising -- they were all people used to braving the edge, and not all that partial to slow death-by-tedium.

"But what about... after?" The Miraluka might be tentative, but nothing if not insightful. "You cannot ask us to send you off on a faulty vessel, Master. You cannot."

The General bowed her head. "I'm not going to go off on a suicide mission, Visas, and certainly would not bring others with me if I did. But you have all already done so much, I can't ask you to waste your time helping to refurbish the ship, either. Perhaps, perhaps it is time for me to look for... other avenues."

Meaning passage in some unsympathetic captain's berth. Meaning routes she might not even be able to take the droids on. Meaning she would leave Bao-Dur behind.

His vocal chords were one of those soonest in protest.

"Go to Telos."

The shock of a voice that had rarely been raised for many a day (since the cold war between him and the General, Bao-Dur observed) rendered an instant pin-drop silence. The General looked directly at the Mandalorian (something she had also not done for a while), and the temperature definitely dropped five degrees.

The tech made a mental note to check the environmental regulators.

"Telos?" His General enunciated with unusual care.

"I know a man with an... interest in locating Revan. He has the contacts to get the job done. Military contacts."

"I am not going to go on a witch-hunt, Mandalore. Or even under the guise of a witch-hunt."

"His intentions are purely benign. At least in the way you think."

"I need more than that to go on."

"What other choices do you have?"

She inclined her head, but in acknowledgment rather than acquiescence. "Not many. But I would rather take my chances."

Mounting tension skyrocketed so suddenly, Bao-Dur fancied an audible explosion of silence. The others shared his mute, morbid fascination of the clash between two Powers-That-Be; for a long while there was only the whirr of HK-47's servomotors as his head swiveled from one to the other and back to the one. Electricity tingled to the very tips of the Iridonian's horns.

"Are you questioning my honor?" The words came not as a shout, as Bao-Dur and likely every other might have anticipated, but with soft gravity. Almost (now he knew himself to be delusional)... regretful.

The two maintained eye-lock, inasmuch as possible with one set behind a helmet. Bao-Dur had the horrible feeling that it could only end in a duel, that being the stock Mandalorian response to everything, or so it seemed.

The General emitted a string of harsh consonants.

Mandalore returned in kind.

Both predators in their element, both oblivious to (he was not ashamed to admit) lesser contenders.

They left.

"Wow." Atton shattered the silence with a low whistle. "Bets, anyone?"

The Disciple favored him with a disapproving glare. "What did they say? How bad is it?"

Bao-Dur shrugged. Strange as it may seem in one who had fought the frontlines, he had never cared to learn the enemy's language; linguistics had never been his forte anyway. Still, it was his personal experience that most Mandalorian utterances concerned death and the dealing of it. Not exactly crèche-room conversation -- or, on second thought, perhaps for _their_ crèches.

"'This is not our time'... no, place, I think," Mira corrected herself. "'This is not our place of battle'." She shrugged as well, but otherwise ignored their curiosity over her knowledge. "It's what the Exile said. And _he_ said 'We will speak'. Strange, huh. The Mandalorians I know aren't all that interested in a heart-to-heart."

"Unless its a blade that goes in," Atton appended darkly. He roughly finger-combed his hair (did beings so endowed not find such personal violence, well, painful?). "Look, maybe we should do something. I know Reni can take care of herself and all, but..."

"I, I do not believe they will harm each other," Visas offered, and continued after a brief hesitation, "Not physically."

Bao-Dur was not the only one unsatisfied, but in the interest of avoiding bloodshed -- namely their own -- resigned to leaving well alone.


	5. And Another Rises

**And Another Rises**

"Master?"

The Star Map painted wormy lines and fantastically squished circles on crimson robes; the Disciple suppressed a grin on sight of the much-abused gift from Onderon's Queen. Not two days ago, the Exile had still -- to quote the equine's mouth -- been struggling over "nefarious needles" and "torturesome threads". The historian part was gratified that one of few relics from the lost Academy of Ossus was not to suffer the fate of yesterday's trash. The part who lived with one moody rogue, two aloof soldiers, two quirky droids, _and_ three incomprehensible women, had been guilty of relief when repair had been completed to the Jedi Master's satisfaction.

To term the Exile a perfectionist boggled even the Iridonian's powers of understatement.

Mical had been amused, at first. The Exile was unnervingly silent in combat -- no war-cries, no challenges, most certainly not anything as mortal as grunts -- just the sizzle of light or whoosh of blades. Nor was she big on social pleasantries, like "how was your day, Mical?" or "any good 'vids lately?". Apparently, though, self-talk warranted garrulity. To the Disciple's awe, it was evidently possible to curse both conception and lineage of the entire weaver's art without once resorting to profanity.

"Master?" he tried again, but the upturned face did not waver from the fascinating bisection of starry points. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of an armored figure loitering halfway between starboard and cockpit.

Mical frowned. Not only was the Mandalorian allowed to eavesdrop whatever he fancied (which was pretty much everything), the Exile seemed habituated if not quite oblivious to the less-than-spotless presence. Jedi Masters were famously convoluted in thinking and practice, but still...

In treacherous moments, the recently concluded Cold War appealed for having forced on the Mandalorian the decency to stay out of the Master's -- and thus everyone else's -- way. _He_ had certainly fallen back to old haunts swiftly enough.

Surely someone should have deigned to educate the Disciple on the Art of Obscure Reasoning and Confounding Behavior, seeing as he was supposedly to chair the next Jedi Council.

His disgruntlement had little positive and much negative effect on the suit, if the amused derision it managed to telegraph, lack of facial features notwithstanding, was anything to go by. Mical had eventually to tear his eyes from the doomed staring match.

"Mas--" the Disciple began patiently (again), then cut himself short. When in such a state, the Exile answered to few things of non-threatening and/or non-physical nature; "Master" was not one of them.

"Reni?" The name tripped awkwardly from his tongue. In this one thing Mical found common ground with the Zabrak tech -- the familiarity the Master insisted (or tried to) on would ever taint of disrespect by their accounts.

"Hmmm?"

"It is I, Master Renani."

"Mmmm hmmm."

He shifted weight several times, whiling away a full minute.

"Mical! How long have you been here? Why didn't you say something?"

One Mandalorian snorted. Two Jedi ignored him.

"If you are busy..." the Disciple began politely, even if the Master had evidently not been doing much of anything (discernable). Who knew what exalted mysteries her ilk pondered in their spare time?

Of course, one could argue that since he couldn't name a single sentient, Jedi or no, who could plausibly be ranked within "her ilk", the issue was moot anyway.

"No, no, just thinking." A dismissive hand waved the miniature galaxy farewell. "You know me, always free for the latest crisis."

Mical had long since admitted that most of the Master's humor sailed like fabool over his iriaz. If that set the others to call him stodgy, so be it.

"I too, have been thinking," he began tentatively. A raised brow encouraged. "About the new Order, and details they, we" -- he corrected -- "must be prepared to address." Retroactively, he tried to smooth away a grimace that had snuck in unawares.

"Don't get too hung up over ee's and tee's, Mical. Airs and gospel were not amongst things to its credit."

The scholar in him puzzled over the unfamiliar idiom, but postponed curiosity for a nod. "I" -- it had become easier, at daunting speed, to speak of the Jedi Restoration in first person -- "have no desire to see past follies reenacted, I assure you. Yet history cannot be learned from if it is not studied."

She reciprocated the acknowledgment, waited expectantly for a point.

The Disciple took a breath. "Lately, I have been studying the Jedi rank system."

The Exile frowned, exuding that it was a subject she neither cared much for nor about.

He was dogged. "It was quite odd, that I could find no reference to Revan's Class. Her entrances to Padawan and Knight status were noted of course, but not whether she was Guardian, Sentinel, or Consular, as I rather anticipated."

Personable though she was, the Master's inner thoughts were unreadable at the best of times. At the moment, the Disciple would have had better luck locating the late Master Vrook's sweetmallow interior.

"I also could not find," he continued with a touch of caution when no response seemed forthcoming, "any reference to _your_ Class, Master Renani."

Distinct lack of surprise at his second revelation. At long last the Exile performed one of her full-body shakes and issued a rueful chuff. "There's no deep, dark secret about it, Mical. Revan and I were not in those rosters for a simple reason. We were neither."

"I am... confused."

"There is no confusion, there is the farce."

He wondered if he looked as pained as he felt.

"Sorry, Disciple. A good question, one that did not deserve being made light of."

He fidgeted, uncomfortable.

"You know the party line: 'Jedi trainees are exposed to a wide variety of subjects to help them find venues best suited'."

All chronicler senses ratcheted to alert by the distinct scent of "story, incoming!", the Disciple nodded. Shadow-on-silver shifted in peripheral vision, provoking a spurt of resentment he could not have done anything about even had he wanted to... or was so admonished by the Jedi Code.

"Revan could not decide on what _didn't_ interest her. I could not decide on what did."

She could not? The Exile he knew and remembered pursued goals with daunting intensity. Pale brows shot up, but Mical kept his own counsel and prompted, "What happened?"

A loose shrug. "Nothing. We drifted around far past the respectable age for Padawan-hood. Revan turned down scores of Masters who would've Leapt to take her on. Eventually we drifted into the path of the Jedi Scholar. As you might expect, Revan's specialties were xenography, astrobiology, game theory, psychosociology, anything she could gobble up on martial arts." A tight smile. "Anything and everything about communication was Revan's personal obsession, and you know the Echani take on combat."

An exposition on Revan's deeds, Revan's motivations. "And of Padawan Renani?"

Surprise jerked dark eyes from drifting off-focus, before the Exile caught and wiped it away. "Her?" A deprecating gesture. "Oh, a little this and that, whatever caught her fancy."

Hurt was not justified, but then emotion had never been a logical creature. "I will understand if you do not wish to talk about it..."

"No, no, I'm not trying to brush you off. It the truth, really. I had little direction. Never did find my calling, not unless you can call leading tens of thousands to their deaths, or setting up the end of an entire people."

"You only did what needed to be d--"

"Done?" Her eyes glittered; it may have been flicker from the holo-galaxy, but that did not mean that Mical liked it. "That is the only mantra that lets me sleep, some time after all the allies and innocents I plowed down to 'cauterize' the 'infection' finish screaming."

It had started out such an innocent conversation... **...and does that, that _nackhawn_ of a Mandalorian have to hover so?**

"Ah, don't look like that, Mical. Those are my nightmares, not yours. I should never have brought them up. Let's see, we were trying to justify years hopping from one subject to the other? There was one theme I stayed true to, I suppose."

He perked up slightly, more than happy to play along with the obvious redirection.

"The Force."

Before Disciple had time to revert to confused (he'd since lost count anyway), the Exile clarified.

"No, the Masters didn't let me off easy. All Jedi learn to connect to the Force, to use it, to listen. Research is more inclined towards, well, I suppose what you could call the, uhm, mechanical aspects of the Force. Cataloguing, developing techniques, though it was metaphysics that interested me most. How does the Force 'come from Life'? What makes a sentient Sensitive? Is the Force localized, or just perception of it?"

Mical corrected a slacking jaw, only to wince at the embarrassing click of teeth.

One corner of the Exile's lips lifted, though (he hoped) not at his antics. "You can imagine how overwhelmingly popular such blasphemous lines of inquiry were. Still, a couple of Masters were... supportive. And, just before the War..."

Questioner suddenly found himself questioned by piercing black orbs. Mical tried not to squirm like the Padawan he was, tried not to imagine all types of behind-the-scenes weighing of how much he was capable of handling.

The Disciple was not unaware that the others viewed him as naive. He was not that forgiving of being thought some unthinking hanger-on, to Jedi principles in general and their Master's teachings in particular. Idealism, he maintained, is a profession requiring diligence leagues above paranoia, pragmatism, or passivity.

Judgment lifted quite suddenly to snap magnetically to holo-Coruscant, or at least insofar as Mical could pinpoint. The Exile addressed the silver spot in its blue glyph-cage, voice reliving memory.

"Before the War, I wondered: could 'Light' and 'Dark' sides of the Force be a matter of biology?"

* * *

Two purple beams, the shorter the more nimble, whirled out of the way of a green diagonal-slash. Deprived of contact, green overshot, but rather than attempt regroup it finished low, wielder in a crouch with one leg swept forth to trip. The afterimage of the twin blades painted bows high in the air as the other contestant leapt. Then, the flurry of activity tamed down to a circling of color around color.

The Exile watched behind half-lidded eyes. **Touch the Sight, as Visas taught. Just a graze, don't let sentients drown out lesser auras.**

...lightsabers were tattle-tales... **Pick out the lone satellite -- there, smoothly tethered by umbilical cord. Wielder comfortable with weapon, in control.**

...the one sanctioned jealousy of their Jedi wielders... **Easier to notice the double orbits, and not just by number. Newly-taken grafts, strong pulse. An invested wielder.**

...a last lesson from an old mentor's Dancing Lightsabers, one the student had not managed to replicate. **See**-ing the inanimate was not exactly staple in "Padawan's Guide to Constructing Lightsabers", or even "Knight's Guide to Understanding Lightsabers". But that was alright -- Reni might have found destiny and purpose in war, but only after and aside a first lasting love in learning.

Besides, light-shows were pretty.

Purple crisscrossed in a wild net that green escaped by a shave. Any melee instructor -- or passable blade-user, Force optional -- could have pointed out that the bearer was a little too reckless, a little too aggressive, to be fighting calm.

The shorter beam winked out; the green wavered in surprise. The remaining purple swooped into that window, at just the right angle and impact to send green spinning off to deck-sparking end in a couple meters' distance. The third beam flamed to existence as if it had never left, the tip of the incandescent river flowing towards...

**Att--!** Tongue smarted from the clamp of teeth that aborted verbalization. It did _not_ do to startle duelers.

"Atton," the Jedi Master admonished, when capable of speaking volume.

Lethality hovered over bare throat a shade too long before the aggressing beams subsided. The orphaned blade hissed sparks at where it intersected the (fortunately) cortosis-enforced ground.

"Sorry." A throwaway word, an afterthought.

A blond head shook cautiously before Disciple made to retrieve his 'saber.

"That was a neat trick, Atton," Reni commended before sternness. "But you let emotions take over."

"Hey, can I help it if--" he caught himself with a flex of fist, then forced a sheepish grin. "Guess I still have... things to work out, huh."

The pilot turned to the historian, who had clipped 'saber back onto belt and now held a hand gingerly over his neck. White-blue shimmered under his palm and discomfort ebbed from his face.

"Sorry, Disciple," Atton managed a little more sincerity.

"Glad we're on the same side," Mical returned, but not without an understandable caution.

Her headaches were all of the tension variety, or so their elected doctor had assured the Exile. That, even she could have self-diagnosed.

**Anybody can learn to fight. Detaching from battle is where most fail...** she mused, only realizing that she had done so out loud when a disbelieving grunt answered.

"Yeah yeah, it's the Jedi thing and all, but we can't all be good little automatons."

Mical seemed as surprised as Reni by the renewed hostility the speaker gifted him.

"I have never tried to preach emotionlessness." Hurt laced her voice despite all efforts. She had never tried to preach anything, at least not by intention.

Atton still had trouble meeting her eyes, but did not need it to enhance the sneer in his posture.

The other trio had by then peeled off various positions to gather around. Just as easily had the mantle of Instructor and Imparter-of-Wisdom slipped round her neck; Reni only checked once per hour these days to see whether it was on backwards.

"The day we walk into battle and feel _nothing_ is the day to forsake our blades," she argued, "but to let emotions do our thinking is more dangerous than any move of the enemy's."

"Y'all know how much I 'love' to agree with joker," Mira indicated the accused with her head, "but I dunno. I mean, it's obviously bad to go all Sithy with rage and all, but I've seen fear and, uhm" -- green eyes slid only to snap back as quickly -- "well, love make people do some amazing things."

The Exile shook a negatory. "Those are things to fight _for_, not _with_. Most of the Masters, on Coruscant, Dantooine, taught that Jedi should aspire to be completely uninfluenced by emotion. They said that Sith go the opposite extreme, exaggerating emotions to drive themselves in combat."

A wistful, half-embarrassed smile crossed her lips. "A few arrogant Padawans decided that both were wrong. If a person feels no love, no hate, no fear, no anger, why not just walk away or kill everyone off to get some peace? On the other hand, passions lend strength and speed at cost of rationality. A person consumed by hate refuses to consider consequences. A person blinded by love refuses to see avenues."

"Hate to break it to ya, sister, but that helps us do what, exactly?"

"I'm not explaining at all, am I?" The Jedi Master stalled by combing imaginary strands back from her forehead. "I'm trying to say that combat should always be a means to an end, no more. Concentrate on the goal, and if there are other, less... irrevocable routes, by all means take it. Don't trap yourself into thinking that the rush of a fight can ever resolve the emotions that motivated it."

"Is that how you did it, General?" Bao-Dur looked at her keenly. "You were always at the front lines, yet always calm, focused. No matter how many atrocities we witnessed. No matter how many we saw fall."

Her head dipped and remained down. "It might not have seemed so, but I felt, I felt each death. Stopping the underlying cause -- not symptoms -- was just so much more important than..." Reni trailed off, tucked hands behind back in instinctual parade rest. "It is a cold, strategist's view. In retrospect, the Jedi shedding of emotion is cleaner, the Sith embrace of feeling more honest. I only know how to postpone the messy bits."

"Retreat is as much a tactic as advance, inaction also an action," Visas observed. "The great employ each to equal effect."

Reni looked up sharply at that resonance with something not quite in memory, but the seer's aura read only of thoughtful contemplation.

Mira tugged at the knot holding a light-pink half-top, a motion that riveted a certain pair of dark eyes and sent the other two off on random tangents. The huntress glared at the first and primly adjusted the hem to a (slightly) more concealing length. "Can't believe I'm going to say this, but you, you kind of made sense, you know? Huh." She shook her head with an exaggerated shudder. "I'm really starting to scare myself."

A twitch threatened the Exile's lips; it definitely brightened her eyes. "The indomitable Huntress? I'm flattered."

"Oh, fu-u-u-unny. I'm just saying, this teacher thing might just work out. Maybe." Mira was quick to backtrack. "Doesn't mean we're going to go easy on you though, so don't blow that head up yet."

One issue of overdone-pout. Insert piteous whine: "What, no first dibs in the 'fresher for your wise old Master?"

Mira and Visas were first out the door.

Bao-Dur shook his head at the self-proclaimed sage's antics, a reprove spoilt completely by curled lips. He left her with a quiet "We all knew how much you grieved, General."

Reni's own smile faded with the echo of footsteps. Only line-of-sight made it to the exit; body remained, arms crossed, hands each gripping a shoulder.

Light and dark shifted in a corner, a conspicuous absence ended by ceasefire.

"That was... almost Mandalore."

She tilted her head to study the near-compliment. /#Our Clans are not so different in motive, only in execution.#/

Two veterans exchanged cordial, if slightly wary, nods.

At least one corner of the universe had made it back to place.

* * *

Mira, bounty-huntress with a most inconvenient conscience, frowned at the familiar sight of a veiled head bent over a messy bunk. Her own sheets, comfortably tangled about legs, were still nowhere near as hopelessly contorted as those the Miraluka struggled with.

"Sheesh, Visas," she said by way of morning greeting, "I think Exile's old enough to make her own bed, don't you?"

Clad arms (**the woman is positively paranoid about showing skin**) paused briefly before resuming toil. "I am unsure about Humans, but my people are taught living skills at an early age."

"Huh? Well, we are too, except for spoilt princess types I suppose." The activity continued for barely a minute before she exploded with, "Would you just stop that!"

The slim figure righted, and the sensation assaulted Mira of being _looked_ at with puzzlement, though if anybody knew what passed for eyes behind that lace they sure weren't telling. **Surprise. The Exchange has nothing to this bunch when it comes to secrets**.

"In what should I desist?" Visas employed the same mildness in everything from asking who was in the 'fresher (**two guesses...**) to eradicating Sith.

Mira ran a hand through her (**unpresentable, yah yah**) hair before jabbing it at the offending sleep-pallet. "_That_. Waiting hand-on-foot on the Exile like she's some kind of queen or something. You aren't her servant, or her slave, Visas."

The veil glided in a graceful (**what else?**) half-nod. "No, I am not. Master Renani has made it quite clear that such behavior is unacceptable."

"Right. Of course. Then what is it with the free housekeeping? You're driving me nuts!"

The accused paused for a while before responding. "I am sorry to have caused you distress. I merely thought to alleviate my own over having to endure a certain... lack of harmony."

One knew there was something seriously wacky about the universe, when a Miraluka began adopting a certain persona's underhanded sarcasm. Mira might have no experience of the species beyond the now, but it was the principle of the matter! The fear factor amped up a few factors when a bounty-huntress began finding it natural... and the slightest bit amusing. A very slight bit.

Mira groaned, buried tousled head in equally tousled pillow.

A respectable while later (**no pre-caffa crises in space, thankfully. Or not as often. Should've read the contract before signing up**) the most petite of the crew (**thank you, T3... okay, really pathetic size issues alert!**) performed her daily scouting rounds.

**First, rancor-trail to the... hangar, huh. Why am I not surprised.**

Strive as she did to deny it, Mira was no more immune to the Exile's magnetism than the rest of the fan club. There were moments where she might (**possibly**) have entertained a (**miniscule**) regret for (**minor**) disparaging wannabe mother-figures early on in their acquaintanceship. She had since discovered that the overture was almost out-of-character for the **shy Jedi/General... _now_ I've seen everything**. By then though, repeat was never to come, and the huntress too proud to ask.

The Jedi Master was currently holding court to a motley of components, legs folded in a torturous position that Mira was convinced required active use of Force to maintain. The Zabrak technician hovered over some more complicated-looking but no less obscure junk nearby. In the frequent instances when the Exile's attention diverted, he snuck anxious glances and rescued a trinket or two from Jedi torture.

Mira shook he head, amazed at how a woman with likely more blood on her hands than the Dark Lord herself -- at least as a former slave had "overheard" -- could morph effortlessly into child-with-blocks. The General and her Tech was a matched set, if Mira had ever seen one.

Another slap to deepen Atton's already green shade.

**Speaking of the bishwag...** The huntress perked her senses, certain that a dedicated Exile-stalker was somewhere close by.

Belying street-tough image, Mira never swore if she could at all control herself; it brought her too close to the unwashed masses of two-chit muggers she so detested. The Rogue/Pilot/Padawan/Fool warranted most of her recent exceptions to self-imposed rules.

**Just a little... aha! Right _there_.** Atton may be exceptional at concealing his presence, but Mira was exceptional at locating the unfound. It might have helped that there were only so many minds within the parsec torn between lust/Paza'ak/envy/lust/Paz... **okay, okay! Got the idea like, what, twenty thoughts ago?**

One mind, to be exact.

**That guy has seriously got to get a life.** Mira studied the man while he studied the dynamic duo from a "concealed" vantage. The Exile could easily have found him out, except that despite evidence of subconscious tabs on her flock (**can anyone say "mother tantla"?**), Mira had never heard of Jedi being as zealous about mental privacy as their "glorious leader".

**Better too much respect than too little, I guess. What _is_ it with males?** A frown deepened to ache-inducing magnitude as the huntress watched the pilot watch the Exile rise to a very close vantage behind the tech's shoulder, ostensibly to peer at whatever horrors he was inflicting on... **hmm, is that from all that junk she made us pick up after the droid party?**.

An ugly emotion spiked, before drowning under a wave of exotic card games with even more eclectic names. And although the other (**more "fortunate", hah**) male remained as superficially tranquil as ever, Mira rather imagined that the Zabrak felt his General's proximity far, far deeper than he let on.

The most annoying thing about the Exile -- even more than selective slovenliness and 'fresher hogging and never pitching kitchen duty and-- **uh, never mind** -- was that she had not the slightest clue of how she affected the opposite sex. The younger woman had at first thought it some kind of "innocence" act, but as she got to know the other better... **okay, okay, so I Peeked a little**. Purely to flex newly-discovered Force muscles, of course.

**Maybe it's a General thing. I suppose you get, well, jaded once you've camped with bunches of smelly men for months on end in life-or-death missions. Or maybe it's a "real Jedi" thi-- why do I care? I don't care!**

Atton shifted behind the small uncomfortable space between bulkhead and machinery, enough for a sliver of light to snapshot holo-smuggler features. Consternation above and beyond the usual Atton-inspired variety geysered. **Which fripping on-board genius decided to loot those farkled robes? And what does that schutta think he's doing? Going to a masque as Sith Assassin?**

However, since the rogue's behavior was not overly Assassin-like (**not where it counts... yet**), the huntress redirected reluctant eyes to the official drama. The Exile was quite excited about something the tech had found, what from the way she murmured into his ear (**betcha _you_ are finding things just that little more "difficult", eh Bao-Dur?**) and inscribed circles around where he fiddled with capacitors and transducers and whatnot that Mira had always congratulated herself for knowing zilch about. The latter (but not former) activity ended with an apparent admonishment (**wow, criticizing "the General", Bao?**). The Exile did the guilty youngling routine, but fairly thrummed with energy where she forced herself to stand still. The tech flicked surreptitious glances that could not quite decide between the evils of before and after.

Atton seethed. He didn't mask it very well at all, but then it wasn't as if the object of his frustrations would up and take notice anytime soon.

**He probably _wants_ her to at some level,** Mira thought a tad sourly. All these months -- **has it been a year already? Wow.** -- and the huntress had still not figured out how the Exile did it. **It isn't like she's drop-dead gorgeous or anything. Could be pretty, I suppose, if she actually took a nanocentury to do more than loop that crop of hers -- who's her barber anyway? Her lightsaber? -- out of the way. Oh, and drape on anything other than those shapeless Keeper or whatever they're called robes. Suppose she's shy about all those scars though; I would be.**

But the point was that the Exile _didn't_ bother, yet men -- and women -- behaved like mynocks around her star anyway.

A barely discernible scuffle alerted the huntress to the rewards of patience. Finally tired of self-imposed torture, Atton was employed in squeezing out using a sequence of steps Mira catalogued for future reference.

She intercepted him one corridor down, at a safe distance from Ears but close enough to state that he need not bother coming up with bluffs.

He didn't seem in the mood to, anyway. "Get lost, Mira," was snarled through distinctly clenched teeth. As if the fists weren't dead giveaways.

She honestly had no intentions of starting a fight. "Or what?" came out anyway. "Atton Rand's gonna teach me a 'lesson'? Would that be the one involving the red 'saber by any chance?"

Something passed shadow over already dark eyes -- surpassed in shade only by the Exile's jet black -- and a frisson of genuine fear descended the huntress' spine.

A sensation she was used to. A sensation she had taught herself to ignore, or at the very least mask.

It was still _there_ though. Lurking, like Hanharr's hatred...

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

_interlude_

A hundred -- felt if not actual -- claw-rakes stung skin on back, forearm, face, thighs... suffice to say that the unblemished made for easier cataloguing. Abdomen still tender, ears still rang from a backhand powerful enough to have imprinted Humanoid form on (fortunately) soft crag-rock. Right ankle throbbed from mad dashes and wild in-run twists to fire before pursuer closed range.

But Huntress stood triumph above Prey, eyeing the pitiful, prone heap with distaste and the subsiding pull of adrenaline in veins. For all Prey's advantage in height and girth, it looked... small. An animal to be exterminated.

Prey whimpered, and Huntress was for a moment tempted to _pull_ that last spark into wounds her own energies were insufficient to heal. But only for the moment -- she had no wish to ingest a life-force as pathetic as _his_.

"Who is the hunted, now?" Huntress mused, uncaring of whether Prey heard or understood.

Prey whined, a plea for death, perhaps. It did not matter, as he had no say in the outcome.

To kill, to not kill -- either way, Huntress sensed that Prey would never again have any say in any outcome of her future. It made for an interesting dilemma.

Was this her fiery, cantankerous self, who thought with such cool rationality about a creature, hardly sentient, that had been both nightmare and day-scare for years? Or was it this place, this graveyard that all spoke hushedly of yet none really _knew_ except for She who walked where no others could go?

Huntress snapped on the safeties of her blasters, returned them to each hip. Only almost as an afterthought did she reach for the lightsaber secured a little lower to the right. Blue light cut at the sick-yellowish ambience; she contemplated its reflection upon the odoriferous mat of hair and blood.

A surgical weapon. If used instead of blasters there would have been no dripping red pools, no congealing black lumps, no overpoweringly heavy stench. Just the smell of cooked flesh.

Thoughts that would have bothered Huntress in another setting, another time.

The blade swung easily in her hand, air being no obstacle to moonbeams and wishes -- even lethal ones. Lack of melee experience had made the bastions of youth the wiser choice, even before accounting for the suicide of letting a Wookiee within _his_ paw's reach. But, more than that, it had somehow not felt right to complete this chapter with a symbol that was to define the next.

It might, however, serve to close said chapter.

Prey whined some more. Huntress still did not care, but a rumble from a baser source did make her consider that perhaps it was time to get on with the program.

So easy either way, to depress thumb as wrist fell... or to not.

Thumb descended.

Prey moaned, but Huntress was already striding towards the gate that the planet's whimsy had shaken open, inasmuch as one could both stride and limp.

She had once claimed to Hunt with victories but no kills. Huntress had left Prey much like this once before, in the name of that unthanked compassion. But now, she sought only to dose Prey with the same twisted logic he had forced upon her for years and years and years.

Such was Huntress' first and last agreement with Prey: Death is mercy.

_end interlude_

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

Feverish eyes glared beneath unruly bangs, and for a suffocating moment Mira felt gritty unkempt fur clamped over throat to bring them eye-level... and, as a bonus, cut off a crucial element. But that was silly. Humans and Wookiees were about as distinct two species as they came, weren't they?

"None of your fedding business," Atton growled, pushing bodily by her.

Or, he tried to. Mira had not lived ten-odd years alone on Nar Shaddaa without cultivating a substantial bag of tricks. A pivot converted intended impact to mere graze of skin, a foot presented a trip for the next barge. Of course, Jedi did not trip easily, and rogues had tricks aplenty of their own, but by the time this one sidestepped she had danced back into his way.

"I'm not in a mood to play with dolls, Mira, so do yourself a favor and scram."

"Aw, but I had all my tea-things laid out!"

Hands inched -- deliberately -- towards his belt, a move somehow the more threatening for lack of follow-up rant.

**What is his problem? Oh right, make that problem_s_.** "What is the matter wi--" Mira began, then decided that Jedi-hood had done nothing significant for her diplomatic skills. "You know what? Let's just skip all the 'who me', 'yeah you', because I know exactly what the matter is with you. Or should I say 'who'?"

"How smart of you, _Padawan_. I hope your _Master_ pats you on the head."

The way Atton spat both words scared her in a way she had not experienced since-- for a very long time. Mira half-expected, half-hoped for the Exile to come running in a minute, but it seemed that Force (or Fate, or good-old-fashioned Bad Luck) intended her to act the big girl about this.

"Atton, you can't make a person, er, want you. Or love you. Or whatever it is you're looking for." **Are _physical_ minefields too much to ask for these days?**

"Any more words of wisdom? Or can I go and chop up the next sod now?"

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" She was aware of her voice rising, but someone else had the volume controls. "Are you some kind of sadist or what?"

More shadows behind thick lashes, the stain a palpable third presence in Atton's stance, Atton's voice. "Oh yeah. Def-f-f-finitely."

Mira had actually gotten quite good at ignoring the man's overblown lechery. It wasn't all that different from the million others she'd hobnobbed with on Nar Shaddaa, or the hundreds of bounties she'd tracked before they were alerted to their status (**some even after, go figure**). Besides, even when targeted at the Exile, there was something... put on about that magnitude of lust.

But there was no denying the raw, almost primal, telepathic force with which he had drawled that last word... the huntress shivered. **Shavit. He's playing a game, one you know very well, Mira. You will _not_ become prey.**

"Just stop it, Atton. Nothing good can come from what you're doing."

The weather on Nar Shaddaa mirrored its crowds -- wild, unpredictable. Mira had loved to climb landing pads before edges of storms, to just _feel_ all that potential energy poised between ploughing down all in its path or shattering into harmless droplets.

She had complained about the emptiness of space. She only wished it Felt empty now.

"Atton," the huntress repeated in (**futile, and you know it**) hope that name could bring man back to self. "Will falling to the Dark Side make her love you?"

**Shebs. That was the wrong thing to say. Situation really, really farkled... where's the fripping backup? I mean, come on, those Jedi senses have gotta be good fo--**

The storm broke.

"You think I don't already know that...?" The last word dipped as sharply in volume as the first had risen. Hands trembled as they rubbed over eyes, motion completed in a sweep through spiky forelock.

Weak-kneed with relief (**careful there, Mira. No swooning, or puking, or any of those dumb things they do in 'vids**), she said the wisest thing to date -- nothing.

"You think I don't know?" Atton's voice remained bitter, though the presiding specter seemed to have subsided into hollowness. "I know. Oh boy, does Atton Rand _know_. He knows he doesn't really want to listen to that not-so-little voice that tells him that if he Falls, he won't _care_ anymore whether she l--"

The next sentence was very soft and decrescendo. "He's not that monster. Yet."

**Great. What am I supposed to say to that? And what's with the freaky third person?** "_You_ don't have to be. Ever." Perhaps she had even injected enough conviction...

That sound was not a laugh. "Yeah? So let me in on the big secret to success already, sister."

**If any more shadows pass the guy, I'm gonna have to invest in weather-shields.** "Just... stop obsessing over it. Go clear your head. Or something. We'll reach Telos soon anyway, and th--" **and then you'll never see her again. Oh wonderful. Mira, counselor extraordinaire. Suicide/Fall rate hundred-and-twenty percent.**

Her "patient" looked significantly less than impressed. "Telos. Yeah."

She would not stop him from leaving this time, but would not endure being shoved either. She stepped out of his way.

The silence of space was once more deafening.

Mira was not one for violence against inanimate objects; she left that for over-testosteroned male contemporaries. But could she help it if that bulkhead plain begged for a dent or two?

"I..."

So. _She_ had heard after all, just omitted the "came running" part. Jedi Serenity bedamned, the Jedi "Master's" cowardice incensed her. The huntress whirled and jabbed an accusing finger the Force helped aim -- first time it had pretended usefulness since-- **Can I please, please go back to bed now?**

"Enjoy the show, 'Master Jedi'?"

The Exile looked at her beseechingly. "I, I thought you coul--"

"--have a buddy-session with loverboy, who by the way _you_ messed up?"

There was petty satisfaction in hearing the eloquent, self-assured Jedi stutter.

"I thought y-you could g-get t--" Large eyes dropped to the ground. "No. I, I did think you could get through to him where I... but mostly, mostly I was just a coward. I let you fight my battle, Mira, because I have not been so afraid in, in a long time."

Neither had the huntress, but _she_ didn't need to know that.

"I just, I just don't know what to do!" Hands compressed temples, but did not ease the tension-lines visible now that the woman had advanced to Mira's position. "I can't give him what he wants, I can't _not_ give him what he wants..."

Maybe it was that Force Bond thing the Exile kept harping on, but whatever the cause, the huntress grabbed for righteous anger only to close around vague wisps of sympathy.

Both women stared at anything but the other for a long three minutes.

"I think you did good," the Exile ventured. After a pause came the appendix, "Considering."

Mira contorted her face in what a Gamorrean might have accepted as a grin, then eased it off with a shrug. "Men. Should've added 'gagged' and 'lobotomized' to the list."

**A Case of Too _Many_ Admirers. I really have seen everything... or will before the big three-zero at this rate.**


	6. In Words, Not All Is Said

**In Words, Not All Is Said**

"Kae-- _Revan_?"

The former General, being formerly a General, had drawn up several scenarios on the reception the _Ebon Hawk_ and crew might expect from Telos -- more particularly the Republic flagship orbiting Telos, more particularly the commander in command of said starship. They were quite sensible projections (even if she said so herself), based on what few records Bao-Dur could hack up and what fewer personal encounters Mandalore would cough up.

Naturally, the one thing Reni would have ranked up/down together with Admiral Onasi shooting her on sight (personally -- the _Hawk_ being flagged hostile didn't count), had she thought of it (which she most definitely had not), was the one to actually take place.

Next thing she knew, strong arms literally swept her off feet, twirling her tall, angular form about as if it were the insubstantial weight of a Morganian.

Despite/because of both vocations, physical contact in non-combat situations were ascetically few and far between. The occasional pat on the arm, grasp on the shoulder, mostly instigated, was as far as experience had ever taken Reni since her first toddle.

Full-body contact with an unknown and distinctly male, well, _male_, thieved the Exile of coherent thought for several minutes.

"Unhand her, Republic," intoned Mandalore from where he had taken up immutable vigilance since Malachor V, one that, curiously enough, not even their spat had deterred. "Before you make even more painful a fool of yourself."

The man followed instructions to the extent of arms remaining possessively around her waist. Brown eyes stared soulfully from beneath wisps that were rich chocolate up to where temples revealed the slightest streaking of silver. If life were a holovid, he would be at a prelude to, perhaps, well, perhaps quite possibly, kissing her.

Surreal panic thrummed through Reni's veins.

Her captor seemed to sense that, for his hold relaxed minutely. "Kaelynn?" was the soft query. "Wha- what's the matter?"

She gabbled without achieving decibel one. Fortunately, her companions -- make that companion, singular -- did not suffer the same folly. She was not above appreciating assistance from the unexpected quarter. One silver glove clamped firmly (and from the wince, painfully) on one orange-clad shoulder.

"She's not Revan, Onasi. Or Kaelynn. So leave the girl be before her entourage start taking potshots at you," Mandalore spoke inflectionlessly.

True, he was the only one with reason not to be bemused. The General cursed herself with belated frenzy for not having factored in a fact she had only been trying to escape all of her life.

The hold slackened with some remnant reluctance, the just-named Admiral Onasi finally stepping back to a less suffocating distance to really _look_. Reni flushed in furious mortification, unable to meet the man's eyes, much less those near-physically querying her back.

Bad timing. Exquisitely bad timing. Hers, the blame for not having been upfront, for having abused her friends' trusts.

"You're, you're not R-R-Revan." Astonishing to hear an Admiral stutter, yet there was a boyish aura to the man technically her elder that made it feel completely in-character. "I'm so sorry for the mistake, miss. You, well, you just reminded me of someone I... knew. I really didn't mean to embarrass you like that. Uh, are you, I didn't, are you alright, miss...?"

"Admiral Onasi, this is Jedi Master General Renani. You may know her as the former Exile. We, her companions, are pleased to make your acquaintance." The Disciple, Force bless his diplomatic aplomb.

A rude, helmet-filtered snort was the only dissent.

"Of, of course. I, uh, you looked, uh, different in the holovids."

"The General has plans she would like to discuss with the Fleet and remaining Jedi," Bao-Dur smoothly picked up. As one might burrow under a blanket, she latched onto the calm he wore.

"Plans, huh?" The Republic soldier frowned slightly, hands folding over his chest.

"Admiral Onasi," Reni acknowledge with a tip of head, glad to find tongue restored to working order -- and, as importantly, sans more-than-half-feared squeak. "I owe you an explanation, if not several. But first, there are things I must discuss with my friends. Things I have put off for far too long, to my shame."

Another round of curiosity, a hint of something darker from Atton.

"I see." The Admiral laughed a trifle nervously, then flashed a charming grin that took decades and lines of pain off his face. "Here I am, forgetting everything they tried to drill into my head on protocol and diplomacy. You must excuse an old soldier. Here, let me escort you to the quarters that have been prepared. Least I could do for uh, manhandling you like that, General Renani."

"Reni," she corrected reflexively, answering smile creeping in. It would be easy to like this man, inauspicious beginnings notwithstanding. "We" -- mock-glares for Bao-Dur, Mical, Visas -- "are not much for titles around here."

The mood lightened gratifyingly. The _Ebon Hawk_ had only broken down twice between near-Outer-Rim and Telos. No targets had been (successfully) painted on them either by remnant Sith, mutated HK's, miscellaneous enemies, or (rather more worryingly) Republic forces.

On the people front, nobody had rubbed anybody else into a Sith Rage, a not-to-be underappreciated feat for seven "meatbags" plus two droids in close confinement throughout weeks-long hyperspace stints. Since said meatbags consisted of five newly-minted Jedi and their grudgingly-back-in-grace Master, it was a miracle nearly worth taking up religion to praise. Sparring sessions had distributed bruises in creative but Heal-able places. Paza'ak and Sabacc and dejarik had redistributed wealth to the already-wealthy, but no starvations had occurred thanks to rations being distributed on a socialist policy.

Atton had not killed or been killed by or threatened to kill anybody. Well, for the latter, not really.

All in all, so the Exile thought, not a bad resume for one broken Jedi.

"Then you must call me Carth. It's always 'Admiral this', 'Admiral that', nowadays I'm forever looking over my shoulder for my father."

"See the sparking circuit, Bao?"

"Yes, General."

* * *

_interlude_

"Well? Speak."

"What eloquence would you have of me? Go to Telos, don't go to Telos. Crawl after Revan's trail if that is your wish."

"You expect me to take blindly, and others with me, the word of a man wh--"

"Do not insult me twice and expect me to ignore it! _Think_, girl. If I had wanted you dead, you have certainly done nothing but bare your throat."

"It is not _death_ I fear from your hands, Mandalore."

An unspoken **Treachery is** left no breathing space between the two principals arrayed in battle-stance across the small room. Armies of panels flickered behind them, busy isolating the _Ebon Hawk_'s security room from potential eavesdroppers.

"I have told you that our goals are the same. I have provided you with the means to do the job."

"You have told me exactly as little as you can get by with. You have told me nothing of what you will do after Revan is found, nothing of the price and consequences of this supposed 'help'. You have told me, in so many words, that you are an 'ally' only so far as it benefits you."

The ensuing silence was stretched by tense breaths.

"If that is how you see it, then perhaps we should part ways."

A second pause, no more or less fraught than the first.

"Give me _one_ reason to trust a man who, even after everything, reciprocates not so much trust as to show his face."

The third was longest, not the least to the principals' minds.

"_You_ want to be seen as more than a copy of your sister. Perhaps _I_ want to be seen as more than a man who once followed her."

A fourth silence married shock from one party and consternation from the other.

"Who is the one playing games, now? I traveled with Revan. I have a pair of eyes in my head. Identical twins aren't that hard to pick out."

"We all have secrets," the one continued when the other did not. "Trust is earned by deeds. If you cannot see for all that I have stood by your side, then you are as blind as bruwose to your allies, and stupid to jump at every imagined slight."

Measures were taken during the fifth verbal lull.

"Allies do not withhold important information from each other. It seems that avoiding the subject of Revan has had its usual effects. So speak, Mandalore. I will attempt to curb my stupidity."

_end interlude_

* * *

"Onasi."

"Canderous Ordo."

The former traveling companions each eyed the other, four-odd years evidently having diluted antagonism and unstated rivalry as much as water did oil. Rivalry that Carth admitted, if only to himself, he could not let go... because when the end came _she_ -- Revan -- had taken the Mandalorian with her and left _him_ -- who loved her -- behind. For all her assurances that it was "just business", the fact had hurt for a very long time.

Still hurt, actually. But he tried not to think about it these days. "Tried" being the operative word.

"That name no longer holds meaning."

Dogged idealism notwithstanding, Carth Onasi was no fool (other than perhaps concerning a certain pair of soul-consuming eyes). Canderous rarely bothered with subtlety, at any rate; there was no mistaking the warning against revelations to be made to the oddly exalted company the mercenary was once again insinuated in.

Suspicion narrowed Carth's eyes. "I have heard that you've been recruiting your kind. That you claim to be Mandalore now."

The helmet issued a rude sound. "There is no 'claim' to it, Republic. Mandalore is whomever holds the might. And this." One armored fingertip thunked the metallic headpiece.

"You had better not be planning more 'conquests', or I swear I'l--"

"Don't be stupid. The galaxy has more to worry about right now than about another Mandalore attack. Besides, there's no fun beating a sniveling opponent."

Hands fisted, but head sternly reminded them that Canderous was doing what Canderous considered fine entertainment -- baiting one Carth Onasi. "So," -- the unwilling player struggled to not clench teeth -- "what reason could a woman as ethical and capable as Reni seems to be have to keep _you_ around?"

One plus of the full-body armor was that Carth need no longer suffer the Mandalorian's smirk. Unfortunately, time had not dulled the memory of that ugly expression either.

"Maybe female Jedi-types _like_ having me around."

Implying that... vision sunsetted red. "You sithspawned so--"

"Relax, Onasi. You're too easy."

"You may call yourself 'Mandalore' and hide permanently in that shiny suit now, but don't forget that you are on a Republic ship, Mandalorian."

"_I'm_ not the one looking for a fight."

"That'll be a first."

One minus of the full-body armor was that it seemed to bounce off glares much like blaster bolts. Carth persisted for a couple of minutes anyway, then abruptly deflated. He finger-combed back the stubborn locks trailing his forehead, felt every one of forty-odd years compress his spine. The only consolation was that Canderous had to be experiencing his substantially larger number as well, yet even that satisfaction was a washed-out one.

In fact, the anger the Mandalorian unfailingly managed to provoke was the most emotion the jaded Admiral had felt for some time. Despite the rebuilding of Telos, despite the tentative reconciliation with his son, life had meandered into a purposelessness akin to the years after his wife Morgana's death.

"What do you want, 'Mandalore'?" Carth sighed tiredly. "Just cut the pointless posturing and get to the point, so that I can get back to important things."

"Don't bowl me over with your enthusiasm for your job, Republic."

"I'm not going to trade any more petty insults with you, Mandalorian."

The latter made a clearly disbelieving sound, but acquiesced to putting "fun and games" on hold. "Just thought I'd 'hang out' with an 'old friend'. And issue a friendly warning."

"Spare me the bantha fodder. If I ever think your people to be a threat, _nothing_ will stop me from taking... appropriate action. Our 'history' sure isn't going to pull any weight."

A negligent wave dismissed the threat. "The Mandalore have no quarrel with the Republic. For now. My warning is more of an individual nature, Onasi. I know you're still mooning over Revan. The whole Republic Fleet probably knows you're still mooning over Revan. That's your farkled business, so long as you keep it that way."

A spasm in his jaw alerted Carth to again-grinding teeth. "My relationship with Revan has nothing to do with anything, and certainly not with you, Canderous!"

"Revan is gone, Onasi. I don't care if you can't reconcile yourself to that. But when you start projecting 'feelings' onto people I work with, it becomes my business."

"What schutta of your acquaintance could I possibly have any interest in?"

"Careful who you insult, Republic. But I will spell it out for you. Stay away from the Exile. She is not Revan. Never was, never will be, and doesn't need you to start ogling her like she is."

"Reni?" Carth tried to sound properly outraged, but it was hard to do with a seed of guilt worming in his guts. Onasi complexion was a curse. "She, they have a lot in common, but of, of course I don't see her as being Revan!"

"Whatever helps you sleep. But keep your paws to yourself, Republic, or you won't like the consequences."

"You-- who do you think yo-- just, just why do you care anyway? Marking territory, Mandalorian?"

If he had hoped to provoke a defensive reaction, Carth was sorely disappointed. The churl merely laughed, as if the notion of being with a beautiful, incredibly talented, brill-- he caught himself and snapped off that train of thought -- was the most ridiculous notion to pass a person's mind. **Just as well**, the soldier thought darkly. **Sure, Reni can take care of herself, but she does have that, that... _innocence_ about her. Much like...**

He had to shake himself out from yet another sojourn down a familiar path.

"I'm 'hiding permanently' in this armor, remember? Or didn't Revan get around to explaining certain mechanics?" Another laugh greeted the next statement. "No wonder your Republic lost all battles before Revan and Renani took charge, if the first thing you assume a woman can be used for is in bed. Rest assured, there are far more important things for the Exile to accomplish, 'Admiral'. I won't have you distracting her concentration."

Distract-- the gall of the man! If it had been anywhere but his office, Carth would have stormed out. As such, he was seriously debating whether it would do to have his 'guest' forcibly ejected... before he lost _all_ of his temper and indulged the blaster begging in his holster.

The Mandalorian preempted both options by rising and walking out with less courtesy than gifted by his entrance. Carth mustered resistance against an urge to bang his head against his desk in attempt of dislodging a most bizarre conversation.

Never before had he appreciated as much the health benefits of a good mind-wipe.

* * *

_interlude_

She gazed in a mirror, and a stranger looked back.

An intricate patterning of blues, reds, and in-betweens decorated the canvas around too-large eyes, lending character to plain black orbs. Burgundy curls softened a too-square jaw, length just grazing bared shoulders; even now, the diligence of a floor-droid erased all evidence of hated waist-level black braid. The same wine stained too-thin lips, for a pretense of definition.

The Girl nodded in satisfaction, baring teeth more fierce than humorous -- or seductive. The Order did not officially celebrate birthing-days, but there was always a small fete commemorating _her_ adoption.

"Padawan."

Girl whirled, terror scrunching corners of painted lids. "M-m-master A-A-Areki! I, uh, I..." Heat crept down neck and shoulders, but no amount of defensive crossing of arms could hide the indecent revelation of skin, the shameful neckline.

"You what? Succeeded in arraying yourself like a common trollop?"

A germ of anger, sown in humiliation, bloomed to insistent life. "I look nice! Why can't _I_ be the pretty one for once? It's always _her_ people want to know about, _her_ that people look at."

"So this is how you want them to see you?" Distilled scorn filled the Woman's voice. She turned dismissively, Girl having fallen below notice, and showered the dumbfounded Beautician with the ice of contempt. "And you. Does your license mean so little that you consent to dolling a child up like a street harlot?"

The blue Twi'lek sputtered in indignation. /#I am not some cheap pahgan, and you have only to look at my work to see it!#/ A lekku jabbed angrily at Girl's direction. /#She told me she was fifteen, anyway! That is more than old enough to start paying attention to appearance. Even for Humans.#/

"She is twelve, as you would have figured had you not been so blinded by credits. Not even old enough to know better than to coddle stupid vanities, evidently."

"That's what you all do, talk about me as if I'm not here!" Girl shouted. The volume felt funny in her throat, but relieved the pressure in her chest.

"You may physically be here, but obviously your senses have taken leave long ago. If I pay you no attention, it is because you have nothing intelligent to say."

"Of course I don't. _She_ is always the smart one, the fast one, the strong one, isn't she? Of course _she_ would have to be, _she_ is your Padawan. I suppose _she_ is the only reason they haven't shipped me off to the Corps already since no Master would have me!"

Beautician flexed her headtails in distress, torn between the relief gained by throwing the spectacle-makers out and avarice of the still-pending compensation for her efforts. The floor-droid whirred off to a corner and deactivated itself. Neither Girl nor Woman paid any heed.

"Is that so? Then perhaps you should start packing, because I doubt Master Bindo will care to take on a Padawan who behaves with the maturity of a five-year-old in a tantrum."

"Master Bindo? Has the Council made him take on charity cases to atone for his latest misbehavior?"

"So it is self-pity that you gorge on now, is it? I had thought that Revan required more guidance when I chose her to tutor, that you were more capable of sound self-direction. Apparently it was a grievous error in judgment."

Girl uttered an involuntary gasp as anger abandoned her. Shoulders hunched, presenting a smaller target. "You, you really thought that? I, I wasn't just the, the useless twin?" Her voice was very small.

The stern line of Woman's lips relaxed a fraction. "You are as useful or as useless as you make of yourself, Padawan. It is not through other's eyes that worth is measured. This fiasco is a lesson, a lesson you would do well to remember. Now come. We will see what we can do about your current... appearance before your Master arrives."

Girl trailed meekly, pausing to grab at discarded garments with guilty hands. The glamorous face-paint -- so tawdry now -- stung her eyes.

/#Schutta! I expect payment for my services!#/ Beautician called after the retreating duo. /#The Jedi Council will hear of this!#/

A handful of credit-chips landed before the shutting door.

For a moment Beautician considered scorning the scornful offering, but common sense won out. She did, however, vow that her first stint with a Jedi customer would also be her last.

_end interlude_

* * *

"It doesn't change the way we think or feel about you, General."

The tech's gentle tone broke the awkward silence, and gave Reni courage enough to raise her head. She tried a grin from behind misty eyes, tried to feel less dastardly for such gaping omissions as "oh, and thought you might like to know, the Sith Lord is my twin". No instance where it would have been apt injection into conversation came to mind, but that was because all hard truths had no fortuitous venues, just necessary ones.

Did they give out titles for Masters of Denial?

It was an open secret, actually. Many had seen them both, even together. Most had marked the resemblance. Some had discerned the blood relation. Few -- the rinacat senses of their Mandalorian companion amongst exceptions -- concluded twins, much less identical ones. The Jedi policy of de-emphasizing pasts helped.

Disciple looked slightly troubled, but otherwise as if she had only confirmed a suspicion, likely from "old days" back on Dantooine. Visas seemed surprised, curious, but nonjudgmental as ever. Mira did not demand retribution for atrocities witnessed in Revan's name, executed by Renani's hand; a good sign. Bao-Dur... Bao-Dur was always her anchor, trusting her to do what was right yet unhesitant to point where she was wrong.

Having delayed the inevitable, Reni forced her eyes over to the remaining -- Mandalore having taken off for some purported catch-up with an old comrade. Atton was, again, the one whose response worried most. The others had suffered the Wars, true, but to them "Revan" was a myth. Glorious from one angle, horrible from the next, yet ultimately dinner-table conversation and not dinner-table figure. The ex-assassin, though, had felt, intimately, the caress of both Jedi Knight and Dark Lord incarnations.

Had been, if deduction panned out, one of Revan's "experiments".

He appeared surprisingly calm in the present. Stony, wary, as if half-expecting her to leak force lightning and spout Sith teachings at any minute... but calm. Perhaps he was re-evaluating her influence under the light of Revan's penchant for manipulation; she would be the first to grant that he was entitled.

They would all be justified in questioning her authority. The Exile had explained to each, some several times over, the former Council's theories on her Force Bonds. The logic that demanded they assign the matter the deserved gravity turned out to be harder to sell.

Did spice-addicts truly contemplate their addictions until too late?

Mandalore was right. She really did need to get off that old wheel. Spinning it was not getting anybody anywhere, except her on the express lane to a headache.

The Exile shot one last nervous look at the silent pilot, then slapped hands on laps in prelude to rising. An odd habit, the origins of which memory had obscured, but one that comfortingly punctuated her switch in modes of operation.

"Alright. Bao-Dur, shall we go see what we can wheedle out of Admiral Onasi? The rest of you can stay here and enjoy the hotel, go cheat the crew out of credits, whatever. Just don't let's get booted off, okay?"

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

"You run a tight ship, Adm-- Carth," the Exile said by way of greeting. Ensign Delighted-To-Be-Of-Help had escorted them to the Admiral's office; she had felt instantly at home in the efficient yet amicable atmosphere of stations along the way. "Nebulon Frigate, if I'm not that rusty?"

Carth rose to greet them, a smile finding its way instantly to his lips. "EF60. Boots are way too big for me, but we manage. Right now all we seem to be doing anyway is shuttling diplomats, all of whom seem to think that arriving in the ship of a 'war hero' gives their cause that much extra shine. They're helping Telos out though, so I suppose I really shouldn't be complaining."

He laughed slightly at himself, shook his head ruefully. "I'm prattling, aren't I? You didn't come here to hear me grumble anyway. C-- Mandalore told me that you're going to look for Revan. How can I help?"

Reni exchanged a brief glance with Bao-Dur. "Well, we are in a bit of a bind..."

Forty minutes later, the tech was happily ensconced in arguments with his fellow mechanics over what the _Ebon Hawk_ required and what it did not. They had taken the scenic route, both visitors having expressed an interest that Carth was more than happy to indulge. Under the self-effacing charm was a captain -- duly, according to evidence -- proud of his ship and people.

He also struck her as very... alone. The former General had spent her adult life feeling the disconnect between command and crew, but this was something more. A deliberate retreat, much like her own in manifestation if not, perhaps, reason. Reni had the feeling that she was one of few people he had spoken to at length recently, and it pained her at a level outside empathy.

The Admiral had been hurt, badly, more than once. Hope, if not belief, ventured that it had not been by Revan's hand.

"The _Ebon Hawk_ out-flew death for us, more than once. Didn't think I'd get to see her again, but no coincidences with the Force, huh?" Fond nostalgia infused the crisp tenor. "We'll get her ship-shape again, don't you worry. That gal's got plenty of juice left in her still."

"Thank you. But you do know that the, uh, credits..."

He chuckled. "Now that sounds familiar. We never did exactly pay for the _Hawk_ in the first place, come to think of it. Being stuck on Taris with nothing more than the clothes on your back will do that to a person. Or people. Kae--"

Carth bit his lip, fell silent. Reni fiddled with hands that had suddenly nowhere to go, a gauche sensation not uncommon in the presence of people navigating a particular slope.

Brown eyes shot a sidelong glance her way. "You, you're not going to pr-- ask?" He sounded rather surprised.

**No, that is Revan's style.** She grappled the familiar emotion and squished it to gratifyingly small proportions, reaching instead for a sincere smile. Gazing at that open, honest face, it was not difficult. "You will talk about it when you're ready, and to someone you're ready to trust. Just know that I am willing to listen. I, I suppose Mandalore told you that we're twins." With possible thanks to recent practice, the admission came out more easily than anticipated.

"Um, yeah. Thanks." Carth winced. "So. About the _Hawk_..."

"I was hoping there are some errands we could run for the Fleet, to pay for the cost. Unfortunately, it doesn't look like we'll be able to move much without repairs coming first. Even Bao-Dur's magic only goes so far."

The Admiral pursed his lips. "I was thinking about that, actually. The Republic has quite some interest in, uh, locating Rev-Revan, I'm sure you know. We can probably get the Admiralty to hire you for that. Everybody's more or less agreed that only Jedi stand a chance, and you've done some pretty amazing things from what I've seen."

The Exile closed her eyes. "I cannot hunt my sister, Carth. Not for the Republic, the Jedi, or the hungry masses out for her blood."

A long pause, then an agitation of air and aether. "I, I truly thought she, she was redeemed, you know. I mean, we went to all these places looking for the Star Map, and Kae-- Revan would do these amazing things for people just because they needed it. She had this, this glow about her. And she was the most damn persistent woman in the galaxy."

"I guess I didn't, I didn't want to believe that she had started to change, way before Saul, Saul Karath, told me that she was Revan. Dark Lord Revan. Kinda ironic, actually. I kept throwing Revan back at Kaelynn's face, back then, but deep down I really didn't want to believe that Kaelynn had just... disappeared. Or wasn't really real. Or whatever. I challenged it because I wanted her to prove it to me, that she was still _her_."

"I think... she did just that. She was Kaelynn because everybody wanted it of her, did things she knew Kaelynn would do."

The man was only a touch Force-sensitive, but broadcast his emotions so overwhelmingly, they were a physical stone that found lodging within the Exile's chest. She would have touched him if she thought it might transmit some comfort, but in his current condition he looked more likely to lash out or bolt. She did not know him well enough to pick a response, and so took the path of patience.

A score or so meters below and beyond a transglass portal, the blue of Bao-Dur's mechanical arm bobbed up the _Ebon Hawk_'s ramp and vanished. A troop of datapad-wielding escorts shared the same fate.

"It couldn't last. I probably knew, even, even back then. Rev-- Revan killed... she killed Jolee. And Juhani. I, I couldn't believe it. And M-m-mission..."

The names were familiar only by repute, save one.

The Jedi Master knew that each of her students felt her mental scream. The woman was in little condition to care. Muscles were suddenly inadequate support, and she would have fallen but for the transglass wall. Face against near-invisible material, Reni felt rather like she imagined an insect in amber might feel -- frozen, yet falling, falling.

Warm hands caught her about the shoulders. "Hey, are, are you okay? I'm sorry, I forgot that you were Exiled, that you might not have known..."

Her rude jerk away confused and stung him, but Reni could not at the moment bear to be touched. The roil of anger/pain nauseated her into semi-fetal position. But, just who was she furious at? Revan, for her so-typical inconsideration of life? Jolee, for no longer being around to balance the propaganda spouting from both sides? Herself, for not having even _felt_ his passing, not having even paid that last tribute?

Voices, from a distance.

"--not sure what happened, I, I--"

"--grief. What did you tell--"

"--should get a medic--"

"--just give her space, the Gen--"

**You are making such a scene... End retreat. Now.**

Geometric lines blurred into focus on tanned cream. "General?"

Reni nodded, not feeling up for nor inclined to more than that inhuman effort.

Bao-Dur neither spoke nor pressed. Thus they remained for some time -- her huddled over knees, him in half-kneel, half-crouch, willing her calm via unwavering amber set in a treasured face.

She blinked often, and so was not aware of tears coursing her face.

* * *

The Exile was subdued for days ensuing, a mood that, needless to say, was mirrored by her troops. Also a given was that not one tight-lipped Jedi would tell him why he'd left a bunch of spice-happy bleeding-hearts to scout out Onasi's new toy, only to come back to a bunch of sarlac-pitted bleeding-hearts.

Mandalore was not pleased. He liked being informed, and Jedi clung to secrecy like sap to a tree.

It was not the first time he wondered why he had stuck around when _she_ had started converting not one, or two, or even three, but five pompous Padawans. The Fool might find amusing that the number constituted half a Paza'ak deck.

**Shavit.** Here was here and that was all there was to it.

Onasi might have been suspect, except that had some Sith possessed the "soldier, not warrior" to swing the other extreme of "gentlemanly" conduct, the Exile would have demonstrated exactly how "capable a woman" she really was. And though the now-Admiral had done more than his share of bumbling, he walked too well for one with a certain male injury, plus his pitiful stuttering had not been _that_ high-pitched. No, no likely injury other than to the fragile flyboy-cum-hero psyche, dare he hope.

Had Republic been half as annoying back when Revan had him apron-tied and potty-trained?

Ah, memory did wonderful things.

Onasi had at least come through on the aid, as Mandalore had known he would. The mora'ga doggedly spouted that Revan was "redeemed" -- **hah. "Brainwashed", I'd say** -- though what he and his Republic could possibly entice Revan with was beyond Mandalore's imagination. Onasi banked too much on suave words and too little on strength and action. Revan might appreciate (and very well) a pretty face plus other, useful bodily parts, but boy-toys she could have at the snap of a sithy-or-otherwise finger.

If Revan ever conceded to a man, he would have to be her equal, with a bride's price she could not refuse.

One could almost pity Onasi for having been betrayed by two commanders -- **and boy had Revan been in command, whatever technicalities of rank Republic chose to delude himself with** -- twice at that by the greater of them. Though, Mandalore imagined that the man suffered more from "his" woman's desertion, also another second in a different class of betrayals.

Yes, one could almost pity Republic, if one was not getting soft.

All the pointless speculation and Onasi-musings in the galaxy, though, was not going to resolve Mandalore's current... predicament.

There were a few things the warrior, mercenary, and current Mandalore considered unbearable. Years of experience in the nasty side of life had diluted most, though about a handful of them remained as abhorrent as the day he squalled first breath.

Parading around a room of bishwag politicians who didn't know the difference between their mouths and other bodily orifices, while pretending that he wouldn't rather shoot the oh-so-fine ceramic out of their sasalea-white hands just to see how fast they could run on those designer footwear... that was one of them.

He appreciated finery. He appreciated the luxurious (for a starship) suits Onasi had stuffed them in, complete with personal 'freshers and corny flowers that never seemed to wilt and even a private (from the rest of the ship) common (for all of them) dining area the Exile had appropriated for planning sessions (_she_ planned, _they_ listened, and somehow at the end thought they had done the thinking. Beats holovids hands-down).

He did not appreciate having to tiptoe around the delicate sensibilities of beings whose business was to pomp and preen and talk meaningless circles around circles in the name of "diplomacy". He did not appreciate having to play nice and endure hours upon hours of rancor-wash on the off chance that all the flarg contained one speck of not-flarg.

He did not appreciate that the torture was optional.

Not even on Taris had the Mandalorian sunk so low. He had chosen to chance Davik's treacherous offer, rather than take up one of many from skrag-brained nobles to play muscle-on-display, just so their spoilt little daughters had something to flutter their pretty little mouths over to their bluer-than-Twi'lek "friends".

Mandalore restrained himself from denting the bulkhead. Barely. He did not bother halting the flow of subvocalized curses.

It wasn't like there was anybody there to hear him.

That might have been part of the problem.

* * *

Admiral Carth Onasi completely detested but one portion of his upgraded duties, so naturally it was the one thing the Fleet had delighted to bestow upon him. His Ensign self might have been awed by exalted names, his Lieutenant self hopeful of hobnobbing opportunities, his Captain self amused by scrambling preparations, his Commander self tolerant of necessary distractions.

His Admiral self grew a headache just thinking about the next oncoming Event, and all that from behind the carbonited smile he forced during the throes of the current one.

Which was to say, "often" didn't quite cut it.

However goosebump-provoking the thought, he imagined it was one of the exceedingly few things he shared with that sore-thumb of a Mandalorian on his ship. The evidence was all there, in how scarce said unworthy had made of himself since the start of the current song-and-dance.

Carth hid a sigh (and brief respite for facial muscles) behind his glass, nodding politely in the direction of miscellaneous notaries he passed on the way towards the buffet table.

He really should not be complaining, especially since he _had_ been the one to invite the latest lot. He still hated to cash in on his near-celebrity status, felt guilty that it had become just that little bit easier each time, but had done it anyway. They needed political support, and political support could only be earned by politicking. It truly annoyed the Admiral that Can-- Mandalore shirked all the unpleasant pleasantries and would still get a free ticket on the quest for Kae-- Revan.

Which part irked most, he was not yet done deciding.

Carth glanced anxiously at the door for the sixth time in half an hour, trying to stop his feet from circling back to where it stood. It was not (entirely) the urge to escape that motivated his limbs -- they fidgetily anticipated grand entrance from the guests of honor.

The Exile and company were not really tardy; it just seemed that way to an Admiral whose host status had required him to be earliest of the trickle of beings. A substantial number of whom would no doubt be "fashionably late".

If it had been a Fleet-only party, punctuality would have been rather more strict, but the presence of Republic officials had also been necessary. Some of them had been conveniently stashed around, from tours they had insisted on of the "miraculous progress" the Ithorians had made rehabilitating Telos since Czerka's mysterious drop out. Most, however, had to be cajoled from the various penthouses they wallowed in, then catered to in appropriately bootlicking style.

Medals and might, check.

Finery and finesse, check.

Bulkheads and enviro-seals, check.

Wookiee-sized orders, check.

After all, they were only proposing to rebuild the Jedi Order.


	7. Cruelest, the Subtle Chain

**Cruelest, the Subtle Chain**

_(in which history builds intentions.)_

_Two weeks ago..._

The Admiral and captain of the Republic Frigate _Engarde_ was pacing in front of the deck fifteen VIP suite, trying to look as if he was not pacing.

He hadn't succeeded either when it had been Fleet exams looming up, or the birth of his first and only born, or when Ka-- Revan had been ensconced with the Jedi Council, or when--

"How is, is she?" Carth blurted out right as the door slid open, before even registering astonished and, come to think of it, suspicious green eyes. Bounty-huntress Mira, if memory supplied correctly. He caught his hand on its way towards hair and pinned it behind his back. "Sorry, guess I'm not used to the cool Admiral act yet. It's just that the Ex-- Reni looked pretty shaken up after our, uh, conversation..."

There was no logical reason to, yet he felt guilty about the whole affair. Logically, he couldn't have known that the deaths of his two Jedi friends would be news to the Exile, or one that she would take so badly. Logically, he couldn't possibly have wanted some kind of overwhelming response, some show of pain -- Renani was not the cold calculative Revan who had so long ago boarded the _Ebon Hawk_ to shatter him with that same tale. Logically, he had no reason to feel the slightest bit vindicated by the suffering of Ka-- Revan's look- but evidently not think-alike.

No logical reason at all.

Whatever his nefarious subconscious had been anticipating though, it was not a General crumpling as if dealt a mortal blow; at least not one whose name even flyboys mouthed with reverence. Fortunately the Zabrak had seemed to know what to do while Carth himself all but panicked over a distressed damsel.

Near-catatonia had not prevented said damsel from insisting on her own feet as transport; the Admiral had taken cue from the technician and kept all opinions on "walk" versus "wobble" to himself. Then, back in quarters, the rest of her company had been quick to cluster. "Thanks, but we'll take it from here" might not have registered in ears, but brain begged to differ.

Remarkably protective of their leader, these latest crew of the _Ebon Hawk_.

**Were you any different?** a wistful thought murmured.

The Incident was one sleepless night distanced, yet Carth remained as bemused as before.

"Exile's fine," Mira said warily, then rolled her eyes. "'least that's what she's repeating."

"Could you tell me what happened?" Carth tried not to shuffle his incredibly conspicuous stance in the corridor. The woman did not appear any more inclined to lay out the red carpet (nor one of any other shade) than one minute ago.

She shrugged, her top riding the motion up over where gentlemen refused to glance. "She's a Jedi Master," explained everything and nothing. "Seems Exile and the dead guy have history. Death really gets to her. Force Bond thing."

The Admiral hoped he was not goggling. "Uhm, okay. Thanks."

Crystalline eyes, a head or so below his, stared expectantly for a while before some internal realization clicked. "Oops. You must want to come in." Half of the huntress vanished behind the wall to make way, followed by a negligent hand-wave. "Just hang around anywhere, you know? I'll go get the Exile for ya."

He smiled after the small supple form, nostalgia over Mission so thick it coated the back of his throat. He'd had little contact with the woman, the past minutes being the longest they had ever spoken, but there was an air about her that reminded him of the Twi'lek kid Kaelynn and he had picked up on Taris.

**Outwardly worldly, inwardly noble. Good old days. And yes, _she_ had been entirely Kaelynn back then.**

Carth felt ancient, and it wasn't just the silver that had encroached when he wasn't looking.

"Admiral Onasi?"

The voice startled him from a generic "abstract" piece that he had been staring at since pacing was very bad form here. He turned swiftly, battle-reflexes keen despite a mostly desk job.

"Reni," he greeted/admonished. "I thought we agreed on 'Carth'?"

"Carth." Unpainted lips curved slightly on a pale (even for one with her dramatic coloring) face, but lines about black eyes remained. "Sorry. I have been a little... preoccupied."

They stood awkwardly for seconds during which Carth discovered that he had not thought beyond hightailing here. Rather than prolong the painful silence he said the first thing to come to mind. "I, ah, Mira said you knew Jolee. Something about a Force Bond...?"

**Never a wise policy, Onasi, and you're sure old enough to know it.**

Reni didn't even pretend to smile this time, though her voice remained even. "Jolee was a good friend, a good mentor. And yes, I do form connections, ah, rather easily. I take it you have some knowledge of them?"

From what he'd seen of Kaelynn/Revan's Bond with Bastila... Carth shuddered.

She preempted the apology mouth opened to give. "I didn't feel him die. I had, was cut off from the Force at the time."

Of all emotions to leak into that unnaturally detached voice, anger was at once both least and most expected. The Admiral had seen more than a fair share of comrades rewarded by lost limbs and sight, had too often played bystander to spirals down anger and resentment he could not quite condemn.

Yet things with Jedi tended to be magnified. And Jedi seemed to rely more on that one sense than ordinary people did the sum of theirs. And emotionally suppressed Jedi were by far preferable to angry ones.

Something of his chariness must have shown, for the Exile visibly reined in. "I am angry at myself, mostly. Don't worry too much. Sith prefer outward-directed anger as a general rule."

A moment's silence passed. "You, you shouldn't bottle it up like that," he ventured tentatively. "I've done it myself, and the results are, well, not pretty. K-- Revan, Revan tried to do that."

**Oh good, Onasi. Who needs tact?**

"I am not Revan," the Exile intoned featurelessly.

He flinched; Carth could hardly help it. The echo of those exact words, spoken by a woman uncannily like the one here and now, overlaid past and present.

The atmosphere charged with things that made his hair stand on end.

Then the Exile physically shook herself as might a wet hound. "We need to finish our conversation, about finding Revan."

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Of course."

"I think," Reni continued in the same clinical tone, "I expressed myself poorly when I said I cannot hunt Revan."

"I understand that," Carth protested truthfully. If Kaelynn -- yes, Kaelynn -- had not turned Dustil back, he doubted if he could have hunted his own son even had the boy terrorized the galaxy.

"No," she corrected quietly. "No, you _don't_ understand."

Huge, lost eyes shifted to the large round table that dominated the dining lounge connecting individual VIP suits. Carth's impression was that the Exile was not overly familiar with social niceties; for some reason they had remained standing throughout the conversation. Her -- hands clasped behind back, feet spaced a precise distance apart -- parade rest, or Carth Onasi wasn't military.

He was redundantly reminded that the woman had served in the same capacity by her factual recitation. "If I had been... capable during the years Revan unleashed Sith, I would have hunted her. I am foremost a soldier, Admiral Onasi, a pragmatist. I do what is necessary. If it was necessary to kill my twin sister to save the galaxy, then so be it."

The smile etched on the Exile's face chilled the battle-tested Admiral.

"So you see, it is nothing as noble as sisterly affection that moves me. I cannot hunt Revan only because I believe the trail she's on to be far more important to the preservation of the galaxy. More important than any justice gained by bringing her back to face it."

* * *

_interlude_

The other of his race had aged greatly since memory. Hair, scattered in thin wisps amongst his face-horns, were shot through with white that contrasted oddly with dark skin. Grief, guilt, perseverance, plus subtleties spoken language could not convey, crisscrossed weathered skin in fluid blue tattoos.

Bao-Dur had himself felt compelled to rework self-portrait after the tragedy that was Malachor V. It might have been one reason beyond shuttle-crash why the General had only recalled him upon prompting. Not that he considered himself particularly memorable even to a General famed for being in-touch with troops, but one usually did not forget the principal writer of a script that ended with one's Exile. For that act alone -- stripping one person of all that defined her -- he doubted if he could ever forgive himself.

His General had been curious about the altered visage, but not pressed beyond that first indirect query he'd brushed off with a joke. It was a private matter for his race, even if he suspected it was only time that stretched between now and his telling her. Not Force-insight, since the future was not one of the things It saw fit to grant Bao-Dur, just something he simply, unquestionably, _knew_.

Lack of future-sight could also be blamed for the technician's literal jump some minutes ago when a voice over his shoulder had intoned/#Still too ugly for Ath, I see.#/

/#Better than be you whom Nath covets.#/ Both Zabraki and jibe slipped his tongue by rote, as if it had been days rather than years enough to fill a decade. Shock stole a second before he spun to meet the accuser, then found his lips stretching in an expression he'd only found renewed use for in the recent year.

/#Bao-Dur of Iridonia,#/ the other Zabrak boomed, loud enough that the so named involuntarily scanned the docking bay for might-be note-takers. /#And still his shy little self, I see.#/

Most beings might jump to conclude "shy", but "little" was another standing joke since the darker man's crown-horns aspired only to the tip of Bao-Dur's chin. He returned the left-shoulder-clasp with his right hand, adding an extra shake out of sheer joy. /#Krag-Mak of Lorista. And Doz-Halk, she is here as well?#/

/#I should think so. She's sure been loud enough about coming to find her little lok, even the dead would comply.#/

/#_She_ is in the unique position of poisoning your meals, muscle-brains.#/ A stocky figure of about the same built as Krag-Mak shouldered the latter aside. Bao-Dur had thought it to be one of the _Engarde_'s techs come to investigate the commotion, and was pleasantly surprised when the face-shield came off with one expert twist.

Doz-Halk too, had changed. Older than her husband to begin with, her hair was now almost entirely silver and caught back in a practical ponytail. The lines on her face were of a subtler shade than Doz-Halk's, but told similarly of the emotional price of war.

/#What are you doing here?#/ Bao-Dur asked in wonderment. /#I thought all of Us left the service, After.#/ Completion of sentence neither desired nor required.

/#We did, after the General,#/ Doz-Halk answered when a glance at her husband measured his recalcitrance. There would only ever be one "General" to Them. /#But the War was not kind to economies, and then there was Revan's return...#/ She sighed. /#The _Fleet_ treats its war heroes generously.#/

The emphasis was not lost on any of the three, yet the Jedi Council had paid the price of injustice plus compounded interest.

/#It still feels like a betrayal,#/ the woman finished softly.

Bao-Dur shook his head firmly. /#No. The General will be very pleased to hear that her people are doing well. It weighs on her, though she does not speak of it.#/

Krag-Mak's face took on the cast of an engorged urusai. /#Hah! I told you that the rumors were right about the General's return.#/

Ignoring his antics, his wife looked the other man over keenly. /#So, she is onboard?#/ It was less question than confirmation. /#We are the ones who should ask what _you_ are doing here, Bao-Dur. It has been a long time with no news, though there was talk about you being on Telos.#/

/#I was,#/ he answered simply. /#The General found me trying to preserve a planet rather than annihilate it.#/

/#You have still not forgiven yourself, have you?#/ Krag-Mak frowned. /#I don't suppose _she_ is any wiser on that account.#/

Doz-Halk issued a shushing. /#The War is over and done with. Our task is now to live after it. Now tell us what you've been doing with yourself, Bao-Dur.#/

/#Maybe, finally, some dust-dancing?#/ Krag-Mak followed with an exaggerated wink.

Bao-Dur's parents had fallen victim to the first Mandalorian raids, but even then he had thought himself well beyond the age of squirming before them. Hands clasped determinedly across chest to preclude twiddles, he shook his head.

/#Humph. You know you've just slotted me in for an earful later, right? The wife's set on seeing you suffer as much as I do under her--#/ were words cut off by a non-too-gentle bump on the hip.

The older Zabrak had been fatherly towards Bao-Dur, despite (mostly) friendly rivalry between foot-soldiers and the techs one unorthodox General employed at front-lines. His wife had been a keeper of sorts for a young, quiet tech more fond of machines than wild times in the cantina-of-the-day, had been instrumental in bringing his contributions to their General's notice out of all those she lorded over.

It had been a bad Time, but they'd had many good times to spite it.

/#Don't use me to excuse your insatiable lust for gossip, old man,#/ Doz-Halk grumbled. /#And if the boy takes courting advice from you, _then_ will I start to worry.#/

The laugh, Bao-Dur managed to swallow, the grin, he did not. Krag-Mak might justify miscellaneous "defections" to the Tech side of camp by moaning about his wife, Doz-Halk might blame her low opinion of "grunts" on her husband's doltishness, but they were an established life-couple from the start. Almost a mascot for soldiers harrowed by death and loss -- after the General herself, of course.

/#I won _your_ notice, didn't I?#/ elicited a rolling of eyes. Unfazed, Krag-Mak shot Bao-Dur a knowing glance. /#I'll bet the General hovers as much around you as she used to.#/

/#She is the General. She hovers over everyone.#/

/#Of course she does. That's why she spent most of her down-time destroying valuable components in a particular lab of a particularly shy little tech.#/

/#She likes the quiet.#/ Bao-Dur did not stutter; at least, he did not think he did. It was quite true. Everyone else always sought "just a moment" of her time, to ask for advice, to bounce ideas, to share worries, to make requests, to simply talk. If laconism that made him "cold as Selkath" to everyone else furnished her some small amount of peace, Bao-Dur was more than glad to secede a bit of real estate. It was not like he had technically had any right to refuse a General who wanted (tried) to create fanciful (rather frivolous to the war effort) machines (he winced to call them that) out of bits and pieces he had floating around. They were (sort of) spare junk, anyway.

/#No dust-dancing, eh?#/

/#She's the General!#/ he protested lamely, not liking the way Krag-Mak eyed him.

/#And you the common foot-soldier? That one's old, go work on the next excuse.#/

Bao-Dur gawped.

/#Ach, quit teasing the boy, braino. Some of us have important things to do.#/ Doz-Halk, though amused, was as ever more perceptive and/or caring than her husband of when all of the young Zabrak's buttons had reached the limit of pushing. /#So, what's this I hear about the General having broken yet another ship?#/

The hearty guffaw was contributed by the obvious party. /#Oh, tush. She's got to give a reason for keeping the boy around, no?#/

Bao-Dur plead the Force for help.

_end interlude_

* * *

"Please, just say what you're thinking," the Exile asked softly into the prolonged silence.

"It, it's nothing." Carth shook his head slowly, voice hushed. "Only that you're way stronger than I am."

What was it with gold-flecked eyes and inevitable confessions? Though, strictly speaking, he was not caught by them now, having sought refuge in hands wringing uselessly and not quite by volition on his lap.

"I told Revan that I'd do what was necessary if... if she fell again. But I, I guess I always knew... if Zaalbar hadn't... she tried to make him kill Mission. Mission Vao! Little blue Twi'lek kid, bright as a pin, like a daughter to Zaalbar. Kaelynn treated her like a sis..." he faltered, then coughed to swallow the word, then in the hallowed tradition of fools, rushed in. "Zaalbar shot himself rather than submit. He, he'd sworn a life-debt to her, you know. Kaelynn, that is. Life-debted to Revan. Didn't know the whole package at the time, of course. Heh. None of us did."

"If Zaalbar hadn't done that, hadn't sent her back to her senses -- or at least let the Kaelynn part reassert itself enough -- I, I would have run. Told myself it was to get news to the Republic, the Jedi. Duty and all." He laughed; it tasted bitter to his own throat. "But I would've run. Run, because I couldn't kill another woman, another woman I l-loved."

Some time passed before her response. "Then I envy you, Carth Onasi, because I can."

He returned eyes to her, and felt instantly like he'd just slapped a trusting child.

It was that look again, one that intermittently pinched the already-sharp angles of her face. A thunderbolt epiphany claimed that **this is a woman who hates herself**.

Carth's second horror was at whomever, whatever had made her that way:

Bastila had mentioned that the Jedi took on trainees at a very young age, back whe-- back then.

The Jedi were (in?)famously big on self-sacrifice.

The Exile had wiped out the Mandalorians in all but technicality. Revan had ordered the construction of the mass-shadow generator, but it had been the General's tech and presumably the General's planning and for cert the General's order that had unleashed obliteration on Malachor V.

The Jedi Council had Exiled the sole Jedi with the guts to come back and face the music.

Fifth finger not required, certainly no toes.

Carth Onasi truly disliked the Jedi Council, for their machinations, for their view of people as tools of some Force nowhere near as benign as they made it out to be. A bad position for a dedicated Republic officer before the wars. An increasingly popular one during and after, but still officially frowned on by the Powers-That-Be.

**Better leave the Krayt dragon asleep and nominally on our side, than poke sticks and hope it'll rise against the enemy.**

All moot now that the Council were dead to the last bodiless corpse and the Jedi scattered like children in panic, but it was Carth's bitter experience that wounds festered long after excision.

"Tweet, broop-bip! Twoot tri-oo-it breep."

Both parties startled, a fact which further startled the Admiral since Jedi were typically an unflappable lot and the Exile in particular seemed to exist within an unseen sensory web. The Zabrak who had just been greeted at entrance sent them an abashed look.

"Sorry, General, Admiral, didn't mean to interrupt. Come, T3, we'll s--"

"Wait, Bao-Dur. Admiral Onasi was so kind to visit, so if you have time, I think... it is time to go over information crucial to our next journey." Something Carth could only describe as a gathering of _will_ settled over the woman like a mantle. Was it only moments ago that he'd glimpsed an injured animal?

The technician's brows rose in inquiry, but he glided over compliantly, clipping the datapad in hand to utility belt as he did so.

"T3, if you could fetch Mand--"

"That might not be advisable," Bao-Dur protested before Carth could.

It was the Exile's turn to raise an eyebrow, but the Zabrak's evenly modulated tone must have contained nuances to her that the third party could not himself decipher. She tilted her head slightly to the side, the tech shifted minutely, then the slightest of nods signified the end of a conversation as subtle and delicately choreographed as any Nahra performance.

The Admiral was impressed. That the Iridonian technician had been a member of General Renani's mysterious Elite back in the Mandalorian War, he had made it his business to know. Tall tales about said Elite, he had taken with a large dose of veteran's salt.

Of course they might "simply" be communicating via the Force, though Carth doubted it. Wasn't that possible only between Jedi, Bonded ones at that?

The Admiral cleared his throat more nervously than he'd had in years, ever since the pinnacle of his career had begun to stretch like a day-job without the relief of finite hours. "I, uh, I'm in for an interrogation, aren't I?"

The Zabrak's tranquil expression did not so much as twitch, so Carth dismissed the inkling of amusement as over-cultivated suspicion. The measure taken by space-dark eyes was much harder to ignore, undemanding though they were.

He didn't make it to one minute. After precisely forty-nine seconds, as the fighter-pilot's hindbrain kindly timed, Carth sighed and sunk into the nearest (quite nicely padded) chair.

"Alright. I guess the Fleet's not going to be handing you transcripts of my reports, so I'll start from the, uh, start..."

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

A number of hours later, one Carth Onasi had completely revised his opinion on the comfort of his ship's VIP lounge chairs.

"You do outrank me, Admiral, more significantly than you think," Reni pointed out when he took a breather and tried to subtly shift his own weight. "You have been sitting as if this were a tribunal."

He did? Carth hadn't noticed -- the woman exuded Authority like air in breath, though memory could not pin a single instance nor particular word or motion where she assumed it. He was? Perhaps the culprit was activity, not setting.

"It's, it's just bringing back memories, that's all." Carth planned a joke on flash-backs to post-Star-Forge "debriefings", but had fortunately grown enough tact being an Admiral to veto that brilliant idea. It was at any rate a poor comparison; this latest round was parsecs more surgical than those from superiors who wanted the whole affair packaged and blockaded and just plain over with. Moreover, no flavor of judgment had entered the current proceedings, astonishing as that feat was.

Reni dipped her head. "I wish there was another way, but there are few with both knowledge and desire to share, and none as reliable as those who lived it."

"Yeah, I, I know." Carth closed his eyes as the number of available "those who lived it" struck with infinitely replenishable freshness. The other two did not interrupt, understanding only as survivors of parallel tales could.

A short while later he blinked swiftly and tried to push it all to background. Peeling out of his jacket and settling into half-recline ate up a few more seconds. "So, uh, we were up to..."

"Kashyyyk. After Zaalbar had been, ah, detained."

"Right. Kashyyyk. Actually, this is one part I can't tell you much about other than Kaelynn going down to the jungle floor to pacify Chuundar. She... well, there was Mission, and the Czerka red-tape, and, erm. What's important is that Kaelynn only took C-- Mandalore and Juhani with her."

Carth Onasi still hated being left out of the loop, especially now with some experience under belt of just how large the loop was. And growing.

"Juhani came back up by herself, later. Said something about another Jedi down there who'd promised to show the way to the Map. What went on in the three days before the other two came back with Jolee... well, I'm afraid only Mandalore can tell you now. Kaelynn was very, uh, she didn't want to talk about it."

"Mandalore." Black eyes unfocused in a moment of thought, then resumed the attentiveness that had not wavered once during the Admiral's narration. "He was not Mandalore, back then."

He shrugged at the non-question. "No. I don't know what kind of game he's playing now, but I, uh, would rather you asked _him_ about it."

The Exile nodded, but in a neutral manner. A quick glance sideways reminded Carth of the tech's presence -- the man did not speak much, it seemed, or at least not to strangers. "We all have secrets," she murmured like a quote, "but his name may be one we should respect, for now. I believe his reasons for that to be... personal in nature."

Carth dropped another shrug. "We might have traveled together for almost a year, but I could never read the man. Didn't care to, actually. He was pretty much the archetypical Mandalorian. Arrogant. Bloodthirsty. Brutish."

Reni raised an eyebrow as if his holo did not align with hers, but made no comment.

A rumble brought pink to the tip of the Admiral's ears.

The reply was a chuckle that startled Carth for its source. The smile lingered in the Zabrak's voice as he admonished, "Us mortals do occasionally require nourishment, General."

The Exile looked as embarrassed as Carth felt, and mumbled an apology.

He waved it off. "Why don't we continue after lunch? Uh," -- the chrono begged to differ -- "a very late lunch. The mess hall won't have anything now, but you don't want to try that sludge anyway. Trust me. Luckily there are some perks to being Admiral..."

* * *

Courtesy of non-perks of being an Admiral, "after" was two days in the making, although "lunch" was adhered to (and at a more conventional hour).

"Perhaps you could fill me in on something. Nobody seems able to tell me your last name," Carth ventured, hands over comfortably distended stomach, a decent length of time after the Exile had last filled her plate. The woman -- like a certain other -- could sure pack away a _lot_ under those voluminous robes. So could the Iridonian, but he had the excuse of build and species. As far as the Admiral knew, the Exile was as Human as himself and a slender one to boot (he nearly blushed at how _that_ knowledge had been obtained).

She looked, for the first time (alright, the second, but the first first didn't really count), taken aback. "I... don't have one."

"Huh? I know everybody called Revan just 'Revan', and after, ah, Saul, I didn't think 'Inesa' could be her real family-name, but even Bastila had a... Surely the Jedi didn't...?" he let his voice trail off a question.

Reni was silent for some time, and Carth about to retract when she brought herself out of reverie. "It's not something I've thought about for a long time," she explained, then first answered his last question. "No, the Jedi discourage dwelling on family ties, but they don't forbid some degree of nostalgia. In our case -- Revan's and mine -- there were none to dwell on."

"You mean you were adopted as babies? By the Jedi Council?"

"I suppose 'adopted' is an acceptable term." Neither tone nor face revealed anything. "Though it was not by the Jedi."

"General?" Bao-Dur prodded, more daring than a thoroughly (well, more than usual) confused but belatedly gaffe-shy Carth.

She almost found a smile for the tech. "A Stranger -- gender, even race unknown -- once imposed on Kas Joktan and Maath Hegarty. Much against their will, though they would never say why they tolerated it. When the Stranger left, two barely weaned infants remained with the couple. And there they remained, until one of them caught the eye of a passing Jedi."

"That stranger, do you think it could've been your mo--" Curiosity was shocked to sense and silence by a look from the Zabrak. It had to have been a trick of paranoia, but for a moment the Admiral had been taken aback by that veelgeg-point glance. **Come on,** he assured himself, **she's the only Jedi around, remember?**

"That is all I know," Reni said with finality.

Carth hated being out of the loop -- but reminded himself that he had no right to demand this woman's life story no matter her relation to one with whom he'd thought he'd earned it. He attempted grace. "It's really none of my business, I suppose. But there's this other thing I'm wondering..."

He took the Exile's lack of protest as acquiescence; besides it was only fair that she offer some answers in return. "Bastila, Revan and Bastila had what they called a 'Force Bond'. It was how Revan found her, after she, ah, I guess we haven't gotten to that part, but anyway. Since you are sisters and all, well, I've heard that Force-sensitive siblings share the same thing. So...?"

"So why haven't I used it to locate her?" Reni spared him the pain of searching for -- and likely failing at -- an un-accusing way of phrasing the same. Carth nodded.

The Exile sighed. "The Jedi Masters have always considered my Bonds dangerous, the one with my sister most of all. We were taught to block each other early on."

"What? But you were only children!"

"Exactly. In many ways children can be more cruel than adults, for 'right' and 'wrong' mean less to them than 'nice' and 'nasty'. It was necessary to keep the stronger personality from dominating the weaker one. Amongst other things."

Carth was unconvinced. "But surely--"

"It is done and past. Neither of us regrets those lessons."

He huffed frustration. "Okay, but you did say 'block', not permanently cut off. Surely there's a way--"

"Perhaps, but not one I'm open to. Not while other routes remain."

Having lost his family and unthinkably nearly his son, Carth could not help some impatience with those who would willingly forsake theirs. "Have you even tried connecting to your sister, ever? Revan and Bastila didn't enjoy the lack of privacy all that much, but they did admit that it wasn't all bad. I'm sure that once--"

"I do not know the extent of what Revan and Bastila shared. I do know exactly how far Revan and mine go, and it has been fully open in only one instance that I know of.

* * *

_interlude_

Thud. Swish. Thud-thud-thud. Thud. Swish. Thud-thu--

Nine pairs of eyes watched with varying degrees of obviousness as the First Twin paced the short span of already-claustrophobic space that was the Republic Cruiser _Advent_'s passenger lounge. The Awareness/Alertness suffocating the fifteen-by-eight room was no mere fancy to the enlightened. The projectors of those sensations were certainly included in the latter, but did so anyway as helplessly as organics pick on scabs.

Each one knew the stakes. Each one knew the sacrifices already made, and had better-than-most ideas of those to come. Each one knew the fragility of their position, so aptly mirrored in "choice" of transport.

Cruisers could barely run, much less fight. Mandalorians had no compunctions about firing on unarmed and/or diplomatic transports, though it might -- if one was lucky -- bore them too much to bother.

Even the Twi'lek-Cathar-Ugnaught cliqued in a corner were subdued. When you were renegades from an Order running towards a Fleet disillusioned of said Order, you took what little grace you received.

Thunk!

The First Twin came to a sharp stop in the precise center of the room. Hyperspace-lines framed stark jet hair in a halo as pale as the face in which black orbs blazed.

"Enough. Self-pity isn't going to make us anything but Mandalorian laughingstock, if they even deign to notice us. What we need are plans, tactics. Show them what it really takes to triumph against overwhelming odds."

The Ugnaught slumped deeper into his chair (no small feat with its ergonomically unsound design), giving an impression of having buried chin in belly. "Pretty words, but we are Jedi, not warmongers. We studied diplomacy and political structure, not Fleet maneuvers. Perhaps the Council was right. It was rash--"

"Inaction is what got the Republic into this mess in the first place!" Heated words, but tone steady with well-reasoned conviction. "The Mandalorians saw stagnation, complacency, a fruit so ripe that rot would have done the job for them in a couple centuries' time. The only way we can win this war is if we start taking offense, not just let ourselves be pushed further and further back defending blows."

All had gathered. Sentients always did when First spoke. One of the three Twi'lek nervously arranged and rearranged green lekku behind ear-cones. "He's gotta point. We dunno nothing 'bout strat'gy, even if th' mighties are gonna listen to a buncha Padawans playin' hooky or a buncha Knights with robes innich th' color hasna even dried."

The other green Twi'lek, a distinct familial resemblance though older and endowed with a set of said freshly-dyed robes, picked up with barely a pause. "Best case issat they'll stick us in da frontlines if they don't just spank 'n send us home. Ten Jedi ain't gonna win no war, no matter how many 'sabers we swing."

"One person can turn a tide with the right tools in the right places." First remained aloof of degenerating morale, and seemed to shine with something more substantial than starlight. One palm opened -- half-supplication, half-reassurance. "Jedi are not to be wasted on the frontlines if I can help it. We can be invaluable in strike teams, that is true, but as leaders, not foot-soldiers. There may only be ten of us right now, but we will show the Admiralty that ten Jedi can be far more valuable than ten Destroyers."

The Cathar's ears tracked First's position. "It will take time, this study of warfare. Time the Mandalorians will not grant." A deceptively lazy swish of tail. "You are the only one with formal education in military arts, and even _your_ knowledge is only theoretical."

A slight inclination of dark head. "That is true," First admitted, "but not for long. As for your lack of knowledge, we can share."

Confusion tainted the air. The Human male whose long frame had been sprawled across two inadequately sized seats perked, hands moving down from behind shaved head. "What do you have in mind?"

"'Mind' is precisely the idea."

The First Twin shifted only very slightly, yet found target with unerring precision.

The Second Twin balked, hand fisting inside voluminous sleeves before conscious thought corrected. "No."

"Hey, care to enlighten us mortals?"

First removed the pressuring stare and gazed at the one of two remaining Humans who had spoken. "We link minds, and I will share what I know. With everyone's consent, of course."

A plethora of uncomfortable noises filled the air. Consensus might not be reached this day, nor the next, nor the one after, but all knew the inevitable. First was First of not just the Twins.

"_I_ will not consent. The depth of connection you're asking for... it's, it is wrong."

First faced Second once again. Eight pairs of eyes played an audience shocked by the staging of an atypical confrontation.

"That is the Council speaking. That is only what they told you because they were afraid. Afraid of the potential of such a Connection between Jedi."

"And with good reason! We are not infallible. We are not perfect. What if one should be tempted? What will happen to the other nine?"

"I am not speaking of a permanent connection. None of us here are Sith."

"No connection is so easily severed, especially not one of this magnitude. It would at the very least be a violation of the most sacred privacy, that of the mind."

"I am not speaking of an exchange of soul-secrets either, just knowledge. As for a little loss of privacy, we all knew coming in that war requires sacrifice."

"Knowledge should be taught, never 'given' in the way you propose. The knowledge in your mind is constructed upon _your_ assumptions, _your_ patterns of thought. Each person must form their own understandings."

"Then by your own logic it is _my_ privacy that will be violated, not any of yours! It is a sacrifice I am willing to make for all our sakes."

Second could only shake in mutely inarticulate protest.

"Aw, c'mon," the younger green braved the tense silence. "It canna be all that bad, if it's just for a 'lil while and I s'pose, well, lim'ted. Ya could just, I dunno, keep ev'rythin' else out f'r us. I know ya can."

"You ask the impossible," Second said flatly. "It is like, like wanting to swim and yet not get wet."

"It may be uncomfortable for us all," the bald male spoke up with a respectful nod towards First, "but surely worth it for an end to the Mandalorian threat. A Jedi's life is sacrifice."

Second could feel the tides turn. "You know not what you're asking," came out a desperate whisper. There existed things that should, could never be yielded. "I will not do it, at any rate."

Accumulated fear and the latest personal dilemmas now had target. First spoke with cold disappointment. "Then you doom us all."

"You can still teach us the 'old fashioned' way. The wiser way."

"Have you not been listening?" As if Second were a child rather than the same (if not all that substantial) age. "There is no _time_. In fact, as soon as we reach Fleet headquarters I plan to getting something done about the grossly-neglected Arkanis sector, since nobody seems to think that Tatooine needs defending even though it lies along a hyperspace route to several key worlds! I won't have time to hold tutorial sessions."

The Cathar rose on silent feet. "I share your fears," he addressed Second, "but I also see now how under-prepared we all are, but one. If personally difficult acts are required to make our disobedience of the Council meaningful, then I am willing for the galaxy's sake. I believe everyone here is in agreement."

_Except for you_, went unspoken but not unheard.

"We don't all need to be master tacticians. We shouldn't even try, when our talents lie elsewhere," Second all but begged. "We just need to learn the language of war, understand what is going on, and direct our efforts appropriately."

"You are right," placated First. "But the fact remains that the Fleet will not risk the wrath of the Council in order to baby-sit a bunch of half-baked Jedi who _might_ one day be useful if they progress past crèche school!"

"Mebbe this' what the Force int'nded yer talent for. Mebbe its why it gave it to ya."

The Talent, a Gift? None had moved, but Second felt increasingly boxed in. "I won't Link us all. It's not safe. It's not _right_."

There exist things that should, could never be yielded... but often, all too often, necessity requires compromise.

"But, but you could 'give' your knowledge to me. I at least have some practice separating out your thoughts. I will try summarizing it for the others while you work on securing a place in the Fleet."

Vaguely guilty relief from some, ambivalence from others. First was uncharacteristically silent, characteristically unreadable beyond what First projected.

Second sighed, shrugged. "At worst, one master tactician and one half-baked pretender should make better offering than just the one."

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

It was done, as is often the case, in an (at least outwardly) anticlimactic session. A one-way exchange, or so the Second Twin thought.

Or told herself.

_end interlude_

* * *

"You don't know the extent of what you're asking. For me to find Revan that way, her fully shielded... it is not like shooting a message pod or even opening a comm channel. Sacrifice is necessary, but there are some I simply _cannot_ make."

Silence-augmented disapproval radiated from the Zabrak. Even if he were to disregard it, Carth doubted if any amount of "face your fear" speeches could change the Exile's mind or undress that "one instance" she'd hinted sans elaboration.

The warm meal sat like rocks in his gullet. "It is your prerogative, I suppose." Hand ran through hair before mind remembered the reality of food-grease. Having already committed, he figured he might as well complete the motion. "Alright, then. If you're so determined to find Revan by more... conventional means, why won't you consider the Fleet's help?"

"It is as I told you: I cannot hunt Revan to appease anybody's sense of justice."

"That's what I don't get! Nobody's going to prosecute Kaelynn or Revan -- she received a full pardon from the Republic. Or would have if she'd stayed long enough to accept it," he muttered the last sotto voce.

"Do you really believe that?" It was Bao-Dur who finally spoke.

"That's what they promised us," Carth said, a little too quickly to come off non-defensive.

Obsidian eyes blinked down in intensity bare seconds before the Admiral succumbed to fingering his collar. "Not prosecute, perhaps. But _per_secute?"

It took seconds to process the difference. "Now wait a minute, we're not the Sith! We, well the Jedi, certainly, believe in reforming pri-- ah, cr--, ehm."

"Prisoners? Criminals? Former Dark Lords?"

Carth wisely gave up a lost cause, seeing as he had been so overwhelmingly convincing in his own conviction.

His silence was apparently misinterpreted, for the Exile continued. "War is an affair that demands sides; people can't fight behind blurry lines. And often," -- a long breath -- "often it is _after_ a war, when the fight is against pain and loss and wounds that might take forever to heal, that a visible enemy is most required."

"I know that." Affront seeped into his voice. "I've been working at rebuilding Telos for years, remember? But I, we would have protected her! That hasn't changed."

"I'm not saying you wouldn't have, or will not should it come to that in some future. But tell me, why do you think Dark Lord Revan wore a mask?"

He narrowed suspicious eyes at the diversion. "Huh. Never thought much about it. Isn't it just a Sith thing?"

"The red lightsabers, the black garb -- all calculated for a specific response, fear." Amber eyes stared keenly at the Exile as the Admiral fought not to stare at their owner. "You think Revan had a deeper reason for concealing her identity."

"Suspicions only, at this point." She spread her hands palms up, flashed apology Carth's way. "It is worse than foolish to try untangling any one of Revan's webs without full information and more."

"I've already agreed to tell you as much as I know. Could you at least pretend to do the same?"

"Telling you my half-baked ideas would only taint your perspective, and having all perspectives can mean the difference between success and failure."

Double (triple?) the number of decades, flip alto to bass, and the resemblance to a certain cranky old Jedi was... eerie. Carth had never felt the Force, but knew something of where Jedi believed they went after death. Besides, all hairs on the back of his neck were stiff at attention.

The Exile sighed upon pick-up of his mulishness. "Very well. Tell me this, then. How did the Republic and Jedi Council decide to spin Revan's return?"

Distance may breed fondness, but Carth had yet to grow any for think-it-yourself bush-beatings in the (now quite literal) spirit of one Jolee Bindo. "I told you. Kaelynn would have been treated like the hero she is." Impatience melted into wistfulness. "Heh. The idea of all those ceremonies and public appearances must have scared her as much as it did me, because she took off after the first one."

If Bao-Dur arrived any faster than he, Carth was too blindsided by epiphany to notice. "No," both voice and head shook. "You can't think... I, I don't buy it."

Silence.

"You, you do think." Protest emerged as a humorless bark. "Nobody ever accused Darth Revan of being short-sighted, eh. Plotting return to the same galaxy she tried her damnable best to destroy... I can't, can't believe it."

Silence is often more effective than words.

"I guess the publicity really messed up her plans, huh. But, but _why_?" He was not proud of how his voice rose at the last, a child's plea for reassurance that the universe was, in fact, a safe, sane place.

"Guesses on Revan's plans and motivations are only that, Carth, guesses." Reni hesitated; he couldn't find it in himself to blame her for pausing to wonder if he was up to what she next said. "Just don't be so quick to accept the 'Darth' that Revan planned for all to see. That was the Council's folly."

Somewhere between daze and dread he woke gradually to the fact that discussion had somehow turned to Republic-Jedi relations. The uncomfortable symbiosis. The unavoidable "what now" in the wake of its severance.

Carth Onasi truly disliked the Jedi Council...

"Hey, wait a minute! I just agreed to, what?"


	8. Castles and Sand

**Castles and Sand**

_(in which future waves are stirred.)_

_Present day..._

**A compliment, Onasi, is usually expected. Just pretend she's Revan or something. No, wait, actually, _don't_ think of her as Revan. That's not Revan, you know she's not Revan--**

"Are you sure you're single?" drew a short straw not even the Force could put back. Carth stumbled over himself in apology. "Of course you are. No wait, that came out completely wrong. I didn't mean to imply... I mean, I know Jedi don't, ah, form attachments, but you weren't Je-- uh, in the Order for years, I, I just wondered if maybe, well it would seem logical, that uh, well..."

"A Jedi rejected by the Force as well as the Council for genocide. Not exactly meet-the-folks material." Reni saved him from topping more turf upon his own grave, even if her method landed him completely aback.

"Except to a Mandalore, perhaps," she continued.

**Oh. I get it. "Either you laugh or you cry" eh, Jolee? You should've tried harder to make me understand. We should all have tri--**

An all-too-familiar snort sounded from behind her shoulder. Carth began to pay belated attention to the rest of her entourage, only to wish he hadn't; the idea that the black-and-silver getup might have been polished for the occasion was a profoundly disturbing one.

"Is that why you're dressed so-- ah, that is, er..." **Yup, still suffering from chronic foot-in-mouth. A terminal case, Onasi, terminal.**

"Dress" consisted of floor-length satina the blue of Ku'Bakai flares, with a neckline that flowed into a half-choker and legs cut to a skirt. The arms and back might have been bare, except for gauze billowing to elbow level. It was actually quite demure -- and economical, reported an Admiral's unwilling experience of gemweb and nanosilk concoctions.

"... un-Jedi-like?" Reni obliged with a second rescue, one self-conscious hand soothing imaginary creases. "It was Atton's idea, and Mira's execution."

The credited made a rude sound. "What she really means is, Mr. Loud-Mouth whined that he 'wouldn't wear a Jedi sack as a shroud', and I was the only one out of the lot with one speck of fashion sense."

"Er, right. You, uh, did a great job."

"Of not tearing my hair out, yeah."

An hour's observation enlightened Carth of the ingenuity behind so trifling a choice as wardrobe. Mira quested to shock nobles and hangers-on, whose properly scandalized expressions gave way to envy the instant she spun on to a next conquest. Mical embroiled himself in fast-paced discussions with high-ranked officers, all of whom seemed to hold him in some regard. Visas Marr acknowledged consolations and spoke with quiet gravity to well-known political figures. Bao-Dur kept busy fencing praise and rather generous offers from Fleet and planetary dignities alike. Atton flirted inveterately with a couple of giggling, glittergowned ladies -- who had earlier eyed his Admiral self like something out of Kashyyyk, no less.

Brown eyes slid reluctantly to the last and most easily located tally. Mandalore had played shadow to an ambulatory Reni throughout the evening, three-quarters of which Carth had spent dreading an imminence of "diplomatic incidents".

**Never one for taking your own advice, were you, Ordo?**

Other than that proverbial zinthorn amongst sasalea, the Exile couldn't have advertised "New Jedi" more clearly by having it blazed across a vidwall. Carth certainly could not imagine a more effective demonstration.

"Are you always this paranoid?"

The Admiral nearly spilled his drink. It contained not one gram of intoxicant, so surely he had not...? Or was one of the relaxed rules that on mental eavesdropping?

It seemed like just yesterday that he'd been informed of not only one, but _five_ extras in the Jedi-slash-headache category.

"He's Mandalorian, not stupid. Don't think their 'code of honor' allows stabs in the back anyway."

Carth doled relief a bit of rein. "Mira! I, uh, I wasn't thinking about, of course I didn't think that. Though now that you mention it, does General Renani always... she lets him get away with a bit much, don't you think?"

The bounty-huntress shrugged, miraculously balancing a flute of liquid throughout the motion. The bubbles clinging to the sides of the transparent vessel barely shivered. **Has to be a Jedi trick, frivolous use of the Force or no.**

"Exile? What's the last ratch she didn't tempt to bite?" She grimaced upon hearing herself. "And get your male brain out of the gutter! You know what I mean."

Admiral Carth Onasi, who truly had not ventured anywhere along those lanes until prompted, found silence to be the better part of wisdom in the instance.

"But hey, don't worry. Even Kreia couldn't snap her out of it." Mira took a sip, only to make a face at the glassware. "Ugh. Gramps had more kick than this thing. What kind of sissy Fleet drink is it?"

"Vishay water. It's not supposed to have any 'kick'," Carth supplied absently; he was about as reassured by her statement as one might expect. "So, he hasn't said a word, huh? Then why is _she_ taking him along and not the rest of y-- uh, uhm..."

**Great, Carth. Wait till the Admiral gets word of your inspired handling of the Jedi emissary. It'll be indefinite KP duty for... oh, right, that's me in The Chair now.**

"We aren't giving her any jagannath points for it, if that's what you think," Mira said sharply. Emerald eyes nearly vanished under a frown. Carth followed and found the migratory pattern of a certain species of rogue. "Some less than others," the huntress's voice continued, attention in absentia.

A minute or so of watching, then Carth's mouth continued the theme of the day. "Is he your, ah..."

"Atton?" The bounty-huntress sounded appalled, a reaction that did not coexist easily with her cultivated worldliness. "Stars no! Besides, he's all a-dweezel over the Exile." She made a derogatory sound, but did not pause tracking. "Him and every other male-or-a-half."

The Admiral felt unqualified to comment. "So, er, what are your plans now?"

"Huh? Plans? Oh, I dunno. Hang around the guys for a while, try to get Visas to lighten up, that sort of thing. Maybe sniff out some Jedi. That'll be later though."

The enterprising pilot put a satyn-fitted arm around the furiously blushing girl's shoulder, topping off with a grin that was salacious even from a distance. Mira thrust her glass out in a vague direction. "Listen, been fun and all, but somebody had better make sure the 'New Jedi' don't start out with a nice big scandal." -- and then was gone in a whirl of form-fitting elastex.

Carth was abruptly very glad that Mission had skipped the male-hunting phase, or at the very least spared him of clues. Self-preservation airlocked his mouth against raising the account with either young woman, but he did spare a moment to praise himself for having rescued abandoned drink plus underfoot carpet.

"Hey there, geezer."

The Admiral spun a second time, but this round's stupefaction was a pleasant one. "Mission! Whe-- how-- wha--"

If he lived to be Jolee's age -- **before he passed, before he passed** -- Carth suspected that he would never get used to seeking a bubbly blue imp only to confront an elegant young beauty. Post-Star-Forge Mission Vao was frailer/stronger in ache-ful ways, with a depth to her eyes that had swiftly placed the label "Kid" in realms of nostalgia.

Never be it said that Onasi optimism knew any bounds, however. "Hey, Kid. Is an old man too old for a public hug?"

"You big goof," Mission mumbled into his jacket a short minute later, while Carth surreptitiously mourned the extra inches he had again missed out on.

He nodded over lace-bound lekku and an onslaught of mist. "Bastila. You should have told me you were coming, but it is very good to see you. Very."

The Jedi's maturing was less physical than the Twi'lek's. Both pony-tails and umber uniform had apparently been retained, but clung to an air of disuse.

"Adm-- Carth. It is... good to see you, too." The cultured enunciation was almost teary, far from the impeccable Padawan who had tried to cram an over-burdened teen under Jedi indifference.

Mission finally disengaged, though without apparent eagerness to be rid of the one remaining arm about waist. "How have you been, geezer? And 'fine' isn't going to fly with me."

At times, Carth would do almost anything to bring back the carefree child who had persisted through the destruction of a planet. In the darkest of sleepless nights, he could almost admit that Revan's having left was perhaps the easiest scenario of and for them all.

"I've, I've been okay. It gets easier." Both women indulged the lie, because when it came down to it, what else could he possibly say?

There was nothing quite as empty as feeling that one's role had already been played.

Carth cleared his throat. "So, where have you been these two years, Bastila, Mission? I know it was bad, but you could have at least... when I heard about Katarr..."

"My presence was not required at that gathering." Translation: the Council had still been jumping at shadows one Padawan Shan had dipped toes in. "After," her voice faltered but pressed on, "the Masters decided that it was wisest for us to go into hiding, as you know. I am, I am sorry we could not send word."

"What she'll eventually get around to," Mission interjected usefully, "is that she came to Kashyyyk."

"What! She was there with you all the time, and you never told me?"

Guilt plus defiance was a combination the teens in Carth's experience had no compunctions in expressing. "It's not like I didn't want to. We couldn't risk B-- Zaalbar's folks."

The Wookiee was no longer "Big Z". Just like Morgana was no longer "Mora". Just like Dustil had almost permanently no longer been "Dus".

Carth nodded. There was nothing left to say. No-one left to blame. No vengeance left to extract, even. Only the slow wait for a "one day" when the universe might again seem a hospitable place.

"The carpets aren't all that interested in galactic news, but we did hear a little about Peragus. Telos. It must have been awful." The young voice was somber with an unfortunate empathy from having watched her own world burn.

His vocabulary seemed to have dwindled to nods, but that was at least one step up from consecutive faux passés. "Things were pretty shaky for a while back there, but I think we're better off than before, on the whole. It's the strangest thing, Vogga the Hutt being almost, well, fair in his deals. Nobody wants to look too closely under that bantha."

Bastila was staring at him with an intensity that threatened to invoke a blush. Upon noticing his notice of her notice, eyes immediately fell above a blush of her own. "Sorry. It's just that I haven't seen y-- haven't spoken to anyone other than a few Wookiees for so long." A fond glance bore unnecessary evidence as to how much the Jedi had changed. "And Mission, of course."

"Hey, now you _know_ why there were ticks in Jolee's power converter."

Life had taught Carth that precious moments could only be held in memory, and imperfectly at that. It had not taught him how to let them pass with grace, but forced him to let them go regardless. "I, uh, I don't know if you've heard, but this Jedi came back and er, fixed, ah, things. And the Exile and, uh, Revan, well, they're kind of, uh--"

"We know," Bastila broke him off gently. Her whole demeanor shuttered close like in bygones.

Mission shrugged. "Bassy told me." Despite the lightness the sobriquet conveyed, her genetically graceful movements were just one shade off.

Carth was tired of having no response better than nods. "I, we should go meet her. Since you're here, you must have heard what she's planning. She'll be glad--"

"She knows we are here."

On hindsight, surprise was perhaps silly. "You've spoken to her?" **Before me?**

The negative swing of pigtails and lekku were in what could have been comical sync.

**Jedi, and women. Or should that be 'women, and Jedi'?**

"It is time," Bastila announced with stock Jedi melodrama.

Digesting a sigh, the Admiral turned on a well-worn heel.

* * *

_interlude_

"Run, Mission. Go, go!"

Sky without end. Water like fine, cold fizz. Clutches of whispery wind. Secretive, sage nods of trees. Sand, sand everywhere.

Mission Vao knew this place. She paid it homage every night, whether or not awareness slipped the tired reels of memory.

_Run, Mission._

Mission Vao knew this voice. She knew the man who owned it, or thought she had up to the moment of their utterance.

_Run._

Mission Vao was small and lithe, but not build to run away.

Carth Onasi apparently was. Mission watched through a shimmering film as she-who-was-not-Kaelynn gave chase, aborted chase, and turned on her blue self instead. Mission watched as words tripped out of her own idiot mouth. Mission watched as Zaalbar, poor conflicted Zaalbar who had not known better than to take a useless Twi'lek kid under wing, gutted said kid with blood-varnished ceremonial blade.

_Ru--_

"No!" she yelled to an uncaring universe. "No, this isn't how it happened!"

Sand. Trees. Wind. Water. Sky.

"Run, Mission. Go, go!"

"Don't you dare, Mister Commander Carth Onasi! We can't just stand by and do--"

Chocolate-over-orange was already gone, evidence of passage erasing under tumbling dun grains.

"You're all alone now, Mission."

Mission Vao had always been alone. But no, no she had not -- the thunder of a Wookiee bowcaster splattered terror upon her soul.

"Holy S-Smeberellich. Please, please no. Wha-- what have you d-d-done, you, you dumb carpet..."

/#Live well, cub.#/

Life was not large enough to contain her anguish.

"Force. Oh Mission, Mission, what have I done? I don't know what... Mission, please, don't... Za-- Zaalbar... Dear Force, I can't heal him. Why can't I... Mi--"

"Just, just give her some space, okay. Or wasn't that enough for you, _Revan_?"

Too late. What use that orange jacket now, when all that was right with the galaxy lay limp and, well, _gone_? What use the cradle of inept skinny arms?

"I, I don't know why I did that. I swear. C-C-Carth, I know you don't believe me, you shouldn't believe me, but I truly don't, I, it was like there was something c-compelling, oh Force what have I..."

"Darth Revan! Have you forgotten our mission? The Wookiee is irrelev--"

"Shut up! Just shut up shut up shut up!" Mission's throat was aflame, like that once she'd snuck a sip of Zaalbar's gorimn wine. The ensuing void was worth every twinge.

She had learned that peace never lasts. "Mis--"

"Frotz off, geezer. Go on. Run away again. That's what you always do, isn't it?"

"I, I wasn't abandoning you, Mission. I wanted to distr--"

"Distract Kae--Re-Revan? Protect me? That's always your excuse, isn't it? Isn't it! So go. I won't turn like Dustil did. You might as well not have come back. Just all of you go! I'll, I'll stay here with, with..."

"Darth Rev--"

_She_ spouted. Another _she_ blubbered. The _he_ tried to placate. There might have been the hiss of lightsabers. There might have been threats, pleas, sludgenews tears. There might have been someone to eventually pry horribly cold clumps from circulation-cut limbs, or perhaps they had to do it the other way around.

"It doesn't matter. None of it matters," she chanted. But if so, whose was that other voice that kept up the refrain "no, no, no"?

For the first time in a brief life, Mission Vao knew ennui.

_end interlude_

* * *

"Exile Renani."

"Jedi Bastila Shan." Dark head inclined with regalness that rivaled a certain formerly uppity Padawan. The Jedi locked invisible 'sabers for a while, then the Exile turned in a move that conceded nothing. "Miss Mission Vao...?"

Indigo eyes openly wide, pert mouth shut. Lekku bobbed in a passable nod.

One glimpse of the impassive examination subjecting the Twi'lek, and Carth put to rest all lingering fantasies of one sister being the other in disguise.

"Admiral Onasi. I hope we didn't forget to thank you for all the work behind this gathering. You have outdone yourselves, you and your crew."

**So, it is to be formality on the menu, huh?** Carth could play along. "Not necessary, General Renani. Just doing my job. You already know Bastila, I take it?"

They both ignored that history had already established the fact. There had to be a clue somewhere in her atypically explosive "They sent _Bastila Shan_?" of days past, since the present curt nod gave nothing away.

The second party was more sympathetic of Carth's sensitivities. "We were Initiates of the same class on Dantooine, and Padawans together for a while. Before--" Full lips snapped shut, compression leeching them of color.

An arched brow was the Exile's only response; Bastila was first to look away. Carth caught both the spasm of hands and the jerk of an already-stiff spine, as she rectified the same overlook he had earlier made.

"Filling your ranks with Mandalorians now, 'General'?" The ice-masked strain in her voice threw him back years in recall.

**When did that rancor learn to blend into grass-painting?** It was only fortunate that the others were too absorbed by individual and collective posturing to take notes on one Admiral's powers of observation.

"So, the little Princess still wants to play Field Commander."

The titled drew audible breath. "Ca--"

"That is Mandalore to you, Jedi."

"Oh? It is, is it?"

The situation was familiar, as was Carth's obliged response. "Uh, this is not a goo--"

"Need a spelling lesson to fill that pretty little head?"

"Tread lightly, 'Mandalore'. Some of us might not care to accommodate your charades."

"And here I thought Jedi were life-of-the-party people."

From the faint curve and definitive closure of the Exile's lips, backup from that quarter would be as dependable as a Krish trading partner. Her gathering flock, as per standard operating procedure, produced nothing more useful than mirrors of her attitude. Carth resigned himself. "Mand--"

"For one who professes disdain of Jedi, I have only to turn my head to find you in bed with one, 'Mandalore'."

"The Jedi are known for many things, but I don't remember the bedroom as being one of them."

Carth winced. "Bast--"

"Of course, if you would like to demonstrate..."

A giggle interrupted both Bastila's white-lipped, red-cheeked retort and Carth's clueless attempt at a salvage run. He snuck a peek left, but the Twi'lek remained fixated on the slightly-off replica of a woman who had touched them both. The Admiral's (still natural) cardiac pacemaker protested the feverish vividity in indigo eyes.

"Oh don't stop, this is too cute. You smilers ever think of applying to the Revwien?"

Mira was not decapitated on spot -- either proof of existence of Mandalorian humor, or of Jedi prowess of a more conventional sort. Carth didn't bother to pretend that luck'd had favorable contributions to spare.

At least the situation was contained--

"Carth Onasi. Admiralty hasn't managed to take you from The Show, I see."

"Ad-- Admiral Dodonna! Er... I've heard that it won't be just 'Admiral' for long, though."

The trim older woman waved a negligent hand. "Rumors, only, for which my hair is duly thankful."

"Wasn't there all that fuss between Kuat and Alderaan shipyards? I didn't hope you could make it."

Her eyes crinkled. "You aren't the first nor last Admiral to shirk parade duty, Carth. Or the type to stand about comparing gossip. Of course, my old protégé knows better than to try to pull a Gorgy-bird on me..."

"Uhm, of course I wasn't-- ahem. General Renani, you may recall Admiral Dodonna from when Rev-- from before. Admiral Dodonna, these are General Renani's latest companions." He proceeded around the half-circle, tucking away hope that the names tripping his mouth at least marginally resembled those in veracity. "And, ah, the Mandalore."

The other Admiral bypassed the lashed glances most awarded the silver armor. "You take great risk in so obviously confirming rumors, 'Mandalore'. And here, no less."

The accused stiffened proudly. "If the Republic is still foolish enough to go digging for enemies in bone-fields right now, the end it has coming might just happen in my lifetime."

"Are you claiming that the Mandalorians seek peaceful coexistence?"

"Isn't that what you wanted from the start? Or were all those 'peace envoys' and offers to coil-tack us just ploys after all?"

The glare shifted to the Exile and slipped on incredulity. "And you, you are allied with this... being?"

**_Whose people you threw away all before in order to fight?_** Carth heard, not through ears.

Black eyes sidled to an oddly intense byplay, that ended with cool statement of fact. "The Mandalore will make no plans against the Republic during my lifetime. Or his."

**She can't possibly promise that,** he thought, but the challenge came from the other Admiral's mouth.

"That's it? That is good enough for you?"

The orbs re-centered on the older woman, who to her credit did not so much as blink. "The most dangerous fighters are those without a goal, Admiral."

"The Mandalorian Wars came to pass precisely because _his_ kind" -- brown eyes arrowed in the relevant direction -- "found 'purpose' in attempting to usurp the Republic!"

The Exile angled slightly to bring Bastila back into view. "Did they. What would the Mandalore have done with a galaxy to tend?"

"Beaten it into shape, at the least."

Bastila, Carth observed, started out grateful for the save from lack of answer, but shared his perturbation by the direction which thanks was due.

"Truly, Mandalore? Whom amongst your Clan-leaders would have been first to give up battle for the tedium of patrolling planets, sectors?"

A busy silence followed. The man must have finally grown to befit his age, for -- to Carth's immense surprise -- he merely issued a sharp nod.

Then again, the Admiral had seen play many a formal duel, Mandalorian or otherwise.

"We might not have cared about who 'owns' the galaxy, but you of all people should know better than to accuse us of being aimless rabble. No matter what some are, now."

"It would be a fool's conceit. But I stand by that the Mandalore did not have a goal behind starting the War. You sought battle for the sake of improving yourselves, never more or less than that. That is what made you so dangerous, so incomprehensible -- you had effectively nothing at stake."

Carth glanced dubiously at the emissary in blatant armor. "You think that with regrouping in mind, they _won't_ fall back to old habits of raping and pillaging whatever they want?"

The Exile's line-of-sight remained immutable. "I believe both our sides have much to teach the other. One that existence without trial is meaningless. One that there are more meaningful quests than carnage."

"The Mandalorians I knew would never have stopped to listen to reason. Even though they have been forced to parley for some time, you think that enough tolerance could have been absorbed into their philosophy?" Having made his usual splash by speaking up at all, the Iridonian shook his head. "It is... ambitious. The number of unknowns boggle me, General. I only hope you are right."

"It is not so inconceivable, Bao-Dur. The Mandalore of today are, as never in our lifetimes and perhaps many before, open to change. Under the right leaders..."

Catching the tail end of Admiral Dodonna's long glance, Carth had only a shrug to offer. His definition of "impossible" had undergone many revisions in the last decade. Moreover, this scene seemed to have but two main characters, with neither of their names making the slots.

Unfortunately, "I don't like it" didn't tend to make much of an impression on the way the Paza'ak drew.

"Too much faith in the opponent's altruism," Mandalore pronounced after a prolonged hiatus. "Too much confidence in the sway of a few."

The Exile's line-of-sight still never deviated. "There is no faith involved. I have seen the current Mandalore act. More importantly, I have seen his followers act."

"You are so confident that you understand _him_?" Bastila exclaimed with the spark Carth had forgotten to tally as one of the things he missed. "You don't even know his name!"

"The name you're born with isn't always the one you live, sweets. Shouldn't you be something of an expert on that?"

The rogue earned a ill-concealed quirk from the Exile, but the face-off remained otherwise unheeding of audience. Carth couldn't quite pin down how the spotlight had shifted between one eye-blink and the next.

Bastila reverted to haughty. "And who might you be to speak on such matters, 'Padawan Rand'?"

"Doesn't Jedification give a man some leave to put on airs?"

"Gee," Mira jumped in with a mock slap of her forehead. "So that's how you got the whole giggle-parade Bith-eyed over 'Atton Rand, hotshot'."

The grin only grew. "Don't worry, sister, plenty to go around. Thought they might be a bit more interested in 'saber' techniques, so that you know."

Bastila, who had up to that point appeared as dazed as Carth felt, flashed from blush to frown in a micro. "I had doubts when I heard that Exile Renani had taken on... students. More, that she presumed _you_ were the ones to rebuild the Order. Surely your 'Master' has not been so remiss as to not instruct you on the dangers--"

"Of having a heart in your chest? Oops, must've slipped her highness's mind. Together with the rest of the endless preaching and Jedi-don'ts, thank Fortuna."

Full lips all but vanished. "Of all the irresponsible, inc--"

"Save your breath, Jedi. And you, quit trying to rub the 'nice lady' up." This from the possessor of a pair of emerald lasers.

"Why, Mir, if your eyes weren't already green..."

Ignoring him with a deliberate turn of shoulder, the bounty-huntress addressed Bastila, and not without compassion. "It's like this. Your Jedi Order lived inside your own pretty little bubble of 'right' and 'wrong' and 'Light' and 'Dark', wailing off to momma Force every time the 'speeder goes off-course. You're just not built to understand how the rest of the galaxy copes."

"We are. We've lived, not just thought about life. We don't automatically blame the 'Dark side' for bad choices. We don't automatically think the Force has all the answers. _Master_ Renani saw that. _She_ understands that we are what the galaxy needs. Not some tribe of monks who have to consult the almighties on the precise amount of compassion appropriate to feel for a stranded gizka."

The other woman's features grew a thundercloud. "The Force is not a mere tool like your blasters, bounty-hunter. With power--"

"That's just the kind of thing I'm talking about! You're all so arrogant about having more 'power' than the rest of the mortals, so busy agonizing over whether this use or that is 'justified'. Has it ever occurred to you that it might simply not be the case? That with or without the Force, the Jedi don't on the whole have more or less 'power' than any other group might?"

"I used to think that," Carth interjected. "But there's no denying that the Jedi, Sith, whatever, have had the largest impacts on the galaxy. Like Revan, before or after..."

"Those are examples of our age," a new voice answered. "It is an unfortunately easy trap, to think that because none can be as directly traced back to as much joy or suffering, that it must always be so."

The Disciple, Carth recalled, was a historian of some repute.

"Look, didn't mean to argue with you." Carth was pleasantly surprised to be included in Mira's address, a courtesy most Jedi omitted. "All I'm saying is, the old Jedi Order obviously had some major problems. The Exile claims we're the whiff of planetary air it needs, and by some miracle, we kinda agree."

Carth's impression was that there was no "kinda" about it. Otherwise would not have boded well.

Bastila folded her arms. "Then why is she not staying w-- here, seeing as she has this 'reformation' all planned out?"

The other doled out the "haven't you been listening" look that was the staple of Mission's generation. "What do you take us for, chakks? You think we wouldn't have smelled a Weequay if all she wanted was to remake Jedi in her image? Or isn't one Atris enough for you?"

The latter had been -- and to his knowledge, still was -- Bastila's friend. Carth winced on her behalf, then changed the grimace to one for himself and settled in for the long haul. At least there was no danger of rilling, even if his head began winding up into a spin that could be charged to nothing as pleasant as imbibition.

"Great blockade run, Carth," Admiral Dodonna murmured in a private moment ignored by the Jedi-Mandalore-almost-Jedi debate team. He shuffled from the praise, like he would not have cared to had it been from any other of his now-daily acquaintances. "Haven't seen the likes of them since the Mandalorian War. Quite different from Renani's Elite though, aren't they?"

Rhetorical, of course, but he nodded anyway. "They make optimism appealing."

Two eyebrows raised. Carth had opened his mouth to clarify when it occurred to him that he wasn't even sure who "they" encompassed.

"That is good to hear." Having let him off the hook, Admiral Dodonna turned to study their subjects. "An impressive set, I agree, especially the 'set' part. And the _Moment's Redoubt_ of our returned General's army...?"

It was a reference to which few held privy, hearkening back to when Revan had been a mere Jedi oddity raving about some threat only she perceived (she, not the Force, but her, a kid of at most sixteen). Everyone had greater concerns, greatest of which were the Mayagil and sister sectors, where Mandalorian raids had all but choked off the Hydian Way and Rimma trade route. Centuries ago, the Core Worlds and Colonies had deemed worthy certain tradeoffs of self-sufficiency in return for "culture". Now, they slowly but surely suffocated.

The entire Fleet bathed, breathed, and bedded chronic anxiety; none could seem to manage to catch anything but mine-salted debris. Add to that all the fruitless attempts to seed combat personnel in freighters, and one had a Fleet on the edge of panic and/or clean-house dictates.

Incredibly, it had been a "real" common freighter's crew that had landed the Republic a first break. The _Moment's Redoubt_ was an old Barloz-class, piloted by a couple burnt-out veterans who had taken on some dubious passengers as last resort. The Mandalorians found them and their borderline-legal goods easy prey, and offered magnanimously quick executions in reward for the minimum of fuss.

The pilot, a one-eyed, former sharpshooter, had surprised himself most of all by challenging their leader to blaster-duel, rather than march docilely to a slightly-faster-than-self-planned demise.

The three lowlifes were fastest to recover from the surprise of his having won, considerably less picky about "honor" than their Mandalorian counterparts, and worked quickly with their own skins at stake.

It wasn't until weeks later that Saul Karath let on to one Captain Carth Onasi that Republic Intelligence had been "grooming" war-veterans for months. What was a trading run, or two, to those who had lived with and been forcibly divorced from adrenaline?

As things happened, a week short of two months after they had whittled the raiders down to manageable proportions, Revan proved herself quite the superlative prophet -- and much else.

But that was another story.

One Admiral Carth Onasi pulled himself from the tentacles of nostalgia, and topped it off with some discreet attempts to rectify negligence of his charge. It wasn't like Mission Vao could be found before she _would_ be found, anyway.

"Atton." He came to the conclusion as he spoke it: "Atton Rand."

"The pilot?" Admiral Dodonna gave a rare show of surprise. "Why would you think that?"

Carth shook the thoughts in his head into place. "There's something about him. Reminds me about... I'm not sure." He forced a smile. "Besides, isn't it always the one that seems least suspect?"

The woman reflected his dubiousness, but did not push.

And he -- poor idiot who had once thought hearts could be guarded -- he missed the one who would have.

* * *

/#What do you think you're doing, you mindless oaf!#/

/#Look, you said 'heat them up', I'm heating them up...#/

/#The side dish, not the dessert, genius! Have you ever had piping hot fizz-pudding?#/

/#Considering that pit worms get better feed th--#/

/#What?#/

/#I said, it was the only cold thing around, so what did you expect, woman?#/

/#Obviously a handsome, _intelligent_ man--#/

/#Who could live with having his brains blasted out through his ears?#/

The clanking turned chilly, though the cadence never deviated.

/#Zif, this is a bit much, hmm? Why the devros crystal and fancy fare? The General you and I knew will happily munch anything set before her. Plus some that hasn't been. Getting unnecessarily worked up--#/

/#Worked up? Worked up? And who was that rushing about earlier to straighten the furniture, which by the way--#/

Two involuntary eavesdroppers exchanged a fifth set of glances. Deciding that no such thing as "after domestic dispute" was within finite forecast, the female gave a one-shoulder shrug and raised a hand to the door-signal.

A distinct pause ensued, then the portal slid open with a hurry that should not have been possible of standard ship circuits. In the through stood a Zabrak couple in civilian wear and freshly-slicked hair.

"General Renani!" chorused voices on opposite ends of the scale. "Bao-Dur," the lower continued. "Come in, come in."

For an embarrassingly long while Reni found words impossible, and when that subsided they came forth more huskily than intended. /#You never used to stand me on ceremony, Doz-Halk, Krag-Mak.#/

Husband gave wife a triumphant nudge. /#Told you the General wouldn't care if her meal came in eight courses or two. Of course, if you were to feed her the same sludge as you make me...#/

/#Hah. The 'same sludge' you managed to grow a paunch on, old man? Quit scaring the kids. Come closer and let me have a look at you, General. The eyes aren't what they were.#/

Things swung abruptly to easy. Having never considered herself a "General" in the military sense, the only distance Reni pretended to was that intrinsic to her makeup. Fortunately the Zabrak couple were by nature ebullient, and had a decade's worth of adventures to relate and dig for in return.

The mood only touched on "serious" twice. Initially, while Krag-Mak coaxed out gales of laughter (or the equivalent from his display-reticent guests), Doz-Halk progressed deeper into silence. Concerned over the disparity with fond recall, Reni had phrased what she hoped was a discreet query.

/#We should have found you,#/ the Loristian Zabrak blurted out. /#When the Jedi finally let it be known that they'd exiled you, we should have gone looking.#/

Equally startled and touched, Reni only managed to shake her head. /#I never expected you to. Any of you.#/

/#The Mandalorians were no longer a threat. If it had been any of _us_ that the Fleet treated so, you know _you_ would have.#/

Bao-Dur would not meet her eyes. /#It wasn't the same,#/ Reni tried again. /#You all had responsibilities to the Fleet, to your families. I had already forsaken mine--#/

/#For a cause you thought was worthy. We all believed in you, but we all sat on our behinds and did nothing!#/

Bao-Dur still would not meet her eyes. Reni attempted a different tack. /#My Exile was self-imposed, mostly. I wasn't of any use to anyone, least of all myself. It was fo--#/

/#Not for the best,#/ Krag-Mak dissented firmly. /#The wife's right. You are family, and families don't leave their own floating in space. You were as much our responsibility as we were yours, General.#/

Reni fidgeted bashfully, the warmth in her gut beyond a meal as excellently Doz-Halk as any in memory. /#Th--thank you. It is, that, that means incredibly much... But if you will not accept that not the slightest blame is yours, at least let me forgive you. I came to no lasting harm. I, I would say that I learned much of myself.#/

/#That will never satisfy me,#/ Doz-Halk said bluntly/#but if you can let the past lie, then so must we. It is good to have you back, General. We will not allow the same to happen again, so mind you before you go swooping off on another insane quest.#/

Reni grinned. /#It can't be that insane, if Bao-Dur was willing to sign up.#/

Two heads -- make that three -- turned to each other and then back at her. The distinct lack of conviction was duly noted.

The other awkwardness took place after both effort and evidence of dining had been erased, a chore awarded to the visitors only under protest.

"About the matter we spoke of to Bao-Dur. You have given it thought?" A throwback to old times, Basic had always to them delineated "business".

Reni hesitated, though there had never been any question of her having paid attention. "Doubting allies has never gone easily with me, Krag-Mak."

"We know. It can be a good thing, provided you pick them carefully." The older man breathed through teeth. His wife continued in lieu. "We just don't want to see a Malak to your Revan, General."

It seemed that the room darkened, though the holo-fire blazed as merrily on as ever. Reni answered with a smaller sigh of her own. "I know, and thank you. I am looking into the matter, I promise. But there must be another explanation."

The Loristians pursed lips in tandem, but made no further attempt to sway her.

By unspoken consensus, no more shop-talk entered the evening.

Despite no involvement with spirits of any chemical sort, it was an almost-giddy Reni who left. She took with her a rare contentment, promises of future visits, and a reluctance to step outside the threshold. Bao-Dur was detained for a few more minutes while she savored the aftertaste of good food and finer company. He re-emerged with a bulky, much-wrapped package.

**Long. Fatter on the bottom. A rifle? Surely not. Can't be a droid. A probe? Whatever for?**

Needle as she might, her friend would only smile and shake his horns.

* * *

_interlude_

"You were once a difficult man to track down, Surgeon."

"Haven't you heard? I'm revalued credit these days."

"It's the location, not the chip, that dictates value."

"Yeah well, as teary as this does not make me, how about a point around here?"

"It has come to our attention that you will soon have cause to entertain... employment options."

"Would that be a Multi thing, or the royal plural?"

"You were once measured amongst the best, Surgeon. You cannot pretend contentment being the drudge you are now."

"Isn't that what all the greats are supposed to want, deep down? A couple ten-thousand ares, a warmed bed, umgullian blobs, a swoop on the side?"

"All mere tokens to your account, when you make the wise decision."

"No, wait, don't tell me. Weekly consults, house calls every few, and if I'm a really, really good boy, new toys as they come?"

"You have the essentials. Although it is to be mostly consults. For now."

"Sorry. Not interested."

"It is not wise to schedule decisions before hearing the price, Surgeon."

"'Reformed', remember? 'Cause if I have to explain, your Basic needs serious work."

"You are familiar with the Shadow-Spoor line of freighters? No? Well, suppose that there is a certain small company, 'family business', if you will. Though in the usual course, such a creature is a transient phenomenon, forgotten between one generation and the next."

"Say, could you point me to where you got that voice modulator? Or maybe you're not organic, 'cause there's no way an organic could come off so monotone."

"It so happens that this entity has persisted for a good portion of the Republic itself, thanks to certain connections and a, shall we say, select market."

"Thanks for the economics lesson. Can I go now? I'm a busy man, the nag nags, you know how it is."

"Your schedule is packed, I am sure. It might however interest you that there has recently been a commission for one of the SS by a very particular customer. One who has since been rendered... unable to fulfill the contract."

"Oh, my bleeding heart."

"Hypothetically, there would be an opening for a transfer of ownership of the _Empyrean Mobius_ right about now, provided that this company is satisfied that there will be no repeat of, ah, disappointing transactions."

"Let me guess, that'll just be a lifetime or two of bondage, up front. No biggie."

"Actually, investors have negotiated for it to be part of start-up assets, should the right entrepreneur be found. One that would not require more than a few months' repayment, the timing of which is crucial, of course. A token of confidence, one might say."

"Oh I'm sure 'they' can be the best of friends."

"That they can."

"What, do I have to cue you in on the 'but worst of...' part?"

"I am not a thug; neither are my employers. I am here to present an arrangement and point out various incentives which will ideally recruit you to our ranks. Enforced labor is so very crude. And ultimately worthless."

"So, I can just walk away, and this 'conversation' will just have been one too many chili dumplings at lunch."

"A meal one of your skills would no doubt make swift recovery from, Surgeon."

"Works for me. I'm headed straight out that door. See?"


	9. Composition of Stars

**Composition of Stars**

"Many cultures tolerate, even cherish naiveté in youth," one Jedi Master pontificated to an unseen audience. "The same rarely becomes an adult. In leaders, the attribute is unforgivable."

Imaginary note-takers nodded, more from lethargy than agreement. Upon The Desk, tasks that _were_ within the Jedi's purview lounged in a pile, demonstrating the girth and mobility of a well-to-do Hutt.

"I didn't think it was going to be all smiles and gotta-gos. But this" -- she shook a datapad hard enough to rearrange ones and zeros -- "this is ridiculous!"

The victim bleeped a mild once before resuming its complacent stare. The superego glared with a deluge of missing sympathy. Reni felt her mouth stretch.

"At least no-one's here to see you make faces, 'General'," she tried a minute later.

The fall of head into hands muffled a groan. It had never failed her before -- humor, that is, not the torture of inanimate objects.

"General?"

She didn't bother moving. "What do you think, Bao-Dur? How many robes in the 'hypothetical annual stipend' of an 'active Jedi Knight'? Why brown? Need some meaningful lines on brown. And oh, should the Order go for offers from Ayelixe Fabrico, or stick to appearances of neutrality?"

"General?" Hesitation stippled the calm she lived in perpetual envy of.

Reni forced herself to face her superior in patience, but not without the fortification of one last scrub. He raised an eyebrow, but suffered to be waved towards an opposite chair.

Repliwood desk, port-side starscape -- all trappings of a rather prime location aboard the _Engarde_. For some unexplained reason, its Admiral had seemed fine with letting his ship be hijacked as base of operations for a cause he had no reason to champion.

The so-called Jedi Master was not ungrateful. She _was_ grateful. She just ofttimes had to remind herself not to twirl on the neat revolving chair.

**Swinging your legs counts too,** an unnamed body admonished.

"Sorry, Bao-Dur. Bet you are relieved to have me out from underfoot, seeing as all I ever do in company these days is complain."

He frowned, but she permitted no pause for reply.

"Carth's kids have been sharing nicely, haven't they? Doz-Halk tells me you've shamed them into better shape than she'd forecast for in years."

"Doz-Halk says that of all raw recruits. They only need experience, perhaps a few pointers."

"And he's modest, no less!" Though fated to transience, her smile was a genuine. "What do you think of Carth? Carth is one of the most capable commanders I have ever met."

Bao-Dur folded his hands, nodded once.

"We, uh, talked a little. Telos is his home world, did you know?"

Still in silent mode (not that he had been given much leave otherwise), her nominal subordinate shrugged. Any other might have pretended intrigue, if only for politeness' sake, but the Iridonian's constitutional honesty was one of all that made him indispensable to her.

**It is not always about you, 'General'.**

"You probably know much better than me all that he's done for the planet. And he, Carth has spoken much of the value of your efforts. I know you haven't interacted all that much, but you like him, don't you?" The last came perilously close blurting, and Reni had to work at suppressing reflexive blabber.

**More blabber, you mean.**

Internal review at last caught up, and the battle became one of denying retreat to under the table. **Could you be any more transparent?** the part unfettered by pride wailed.

Amber eyes assessed her with a strange intensity. "So far, his actions have been honorable," was apparently all that caution allowed.

"I'm glad you think so too." Reni had to remind herself to tone down. "Carth is prepared to go to lengths to see Telos recover. He would jump at the chance to help set you up. He knows things, people, he can get you where it counts."

Some idiotic sentiment that needed approval on the other man's behalf blundered on even as she winced. "All this drudge repair-work is beneath your skills, Bao-Dur. It has been too long, but I haven't forgotten how alive you were back when... well, this time, this project would be one for unequivocal good, don't you think? The people working on this are the best, and not only in skills. Plus, I know how much you've missed the Pair, as much they've missed you. You'll put a permanent smile on their faces just by staying in the same sector..."

It did not bode well, his inscrutable wait until the words dried in her mouth. She was so carelessly accustomed to being able to read this man, that withdrawal of the privilege spun the universe.

"You gave me your word, General." The chill in his voice physically crawled up her spine.

"Bao-Dur..."

"Are you sending me away?" he asked.

_**Are you going back on your word?**_ she heard.

The tech's intelligence had always loped alongside her own. Why did he refuse to see? Of all times, why now?

"Bao-Dur..."

"I just need a 'yes' or 'no', General."

"Y--y..."

Eyes slipped shut in defeat. Against Reni's will, somebody's lips trembled out a negative.

"Then there is no use rehashing this."

He walked out. The indentation on the vacated seat rose slowly, then stayed flat for many minutes.

It occurred that she had not asked why he had walked in.

* * *

"Master Jedi." The sentient's vocal range was shrill to Human ears, even after efforts by Senator and delegation to modulate. "The" -- insert syllables that defeated the single-tongued -- "may not be one of the more visible in this galaxy, but we are a people with a long tradition of..."

Reni nursed a terminally ill smile and tried not to glance at the monstrosity of a chrono cutting off the woman's circulation. The one built into her brain had sufficed to set combat strikes by, so it had to be the mechanical one at fault. Too many weeks older and tangibly less wise of such scenes, she would not have put it past species Politico to run on deliberately slower circuits, anyway.

A unnecessarily stealthy glance confirmed that Mandalore stood still where last recorded, glowering invisibly but not impalpably behind the coveted helm. He had turned out to be the only one of her companions to possess both the time and inclination to prove that misery shared was _not_ misery lessened.

That is to say, the "inclination" part was debatable. His persistence quite likely served only because he wanted a more convenient venue to exhibit his anger. No directions were required to scope his target -- nobody, least of all self, was particularly pleased with the Exile of late.

**Stop cringing. You are not some neglected youngling to be begging for approval.**

Knowing one's shorts and doing something about them were two disjoint strains of bantha, or so ran her latest excuses.

The Senator moved her lower-arms to beneath her lower-breasts, followed by upper-arms to the set above it. Reni kept eyes firmly away from a mane which she was convinced swished by volition. She only hoped that eye-contact did not constitute something like a death-challenge to this species.

HK-47 could have come in useful. Unfortunately, his circuits were currently maxed out with the formulation of ways to be as un-useful as programming allowed.

**Even the droid knows to rebel. Droll.**

"You are of course familiar with recent events that have given beings cause to be wary. If the Jedi truly wish to re-establish their presence, perhaps they would be wise to consider relocation. The" -- another tangle Reni blamed on the inadequacies of the Human brain -- "is a beautiful system, rich in people and resources. You must have heard of our fabled..."

**Stop griping. Would you rather it be Senator Kesy'na'a?** Simultaneous to suppressing one shudder, Reni juggled one nod plus one attempt to fashion the Force into ear-buffers. The alien's voice phased in and out as talent wobbled around an uncertain medium.

**Pay attention!** rapped over mental knuckles. **It is only the future of all Force Sensitives in this galaxy that is being discussed. Or are you above such worldly concerns, 'Jedi Master'?**

The accused retracted guilty thoughts, and put them to wondering if this is how multiple personalities were made.

**It is not as if it is anything but "if" this, "perhaps" that, "maybe" some other thing. We are wasting time--**

**We are scouting the field! Did you expect to camp outside the Galactic Senate until some unknowing soul takes pity?**

**I know, I know already! But this isn't wh--**

* * *

_interlude_

"--isn't what I should be doing."

As per temperament, the narrowing eyes formed pools of scalding chokolate. Ever since another had labeled their owner "Princess", the Jedi-Who-Wasn't had found it impossible to resist locating the million plus one details arguing for it.

"Typical." Lilt lifted the word into realms aspired to by public speakers. "It has never been your place to solve problems, has it? Only to complain about them."

"I don't need to remind you of who it was who remained behind."

"Yes, you need not. We both know which is the more difficult task -- staying to handle the consequences, or dashing off to wreak more harm than you can claim to have solved!"

"I regret many things. The necessity of action is not one of them."

Lips of a color that, if not externally wrought, might well inspire efforts to replicate such. Their current curl, though, was less than congenial and entirely irreproducible. "It was too much to hope that you might learn from your mistakes. I can only pray the Force that the galaxy survives more lessons that benefit none but you."

The Jedi-Not grew aware of a quiet thunder. "Make your point, or leave it. Obfuscation is another lesson I fail to appreciate."

"It's always about you, isn't it? What of these 'students' of yours, whom you would stage as founders of the new Order? What do they have to say on the matter?"

"I have made no choices for them."

"What choices have you left them? What choices will they have when the Senate laughs at their faces, or the Sith seduces with promises of guidance? What will you do then, but be just as quick to abandon them? Exactly like you abandoned those who called themselves your friends, your teach--"

"Enough!" The atypical volume drew a flinch from the aristocratically-boned face and unwelcome pleasure from the Jedi-Not. The latter continued at a temperature deliberately opposite to the former's. "What would you prefer I do? All beings must forge their own futures. I won't take that freedom from them."

"These are not your children! You don't even have the years to pretend to be capable of standing in for--" Lines pinched a flawless brow, and the Princess paused for a half-second. "It is not 'freedom' that you're leaving them, only responsibilities that were never theirs in the first place."

"Responsibility belongs to those brave enough to answer."

"Then, by your own admission, _you_ are a coward of the worse sort."

If intended, the strike was miscalculated. "Have I ever claimed otherwise?"

Aether almost shivered, but the Princess reined in. Tresses shook wardingly from side to side. "They said you had changed," she complained to some inner council. "The War, the Exile... but no, you are exactly the same cold, calculating..."

Her focus swung back outwards the moment logical conclusion arrived.

"It is because of _you_ they are no longer with us! Because of you, that over three-quarters of ours are gone, and the rest-- let me tell you exactly what you left in your wake, Exile. We, who used to be icons, we now skulk amongst pariahs, not knowing what to fear most. The Sith, who would devour us to the last child? The mercenaries, who would slaughter us for pittance? Or the common people, who would exterminate those they see as a curse? The Force abandoned _you_ for your despicable actions, but you have forced _us_ into pretending to be blind."

"If you will not change, then hear this, 'General'. You need us to resurface? Jedi do not trust easily these days. You would throw upon us ill-trained Padawans? I can assure you these 'New Jedi' will fail."

"Leave, and know that there will be nothing when you return. If you even have it in you to bother."

_end interlude_

* * *

**--whatever is necessary,** insisted second-self. **Your lot has always been to do whatever is necessary.**

Eyes slid shut, only to fly open as brain recalled the existence of company. In the midst of her grappling, Reni was pathetically grateful when a tall Bothan scurried up ("tall", meaning that politeness did not require her to stoop).

"Pardon the intrusion, Senator" he began with a toothy grin for the addressed, then proceeded to lay out all twenty-two syllables to perfection. "I have only just been told my schedule has been cut short, and, well, you know how it is. Would you permit me to steal this charming young woman away for a few minutes? Oh, not long, I'll never hear the end of it otherwise. 'Fifteen-hundred hours, my aides say, and stars help me if I delay by so much as one precious minute. You don't mind, do you? Most gracious, thank you."

Reni managed to draw half a breath and issue one bow, or as well as a one-headed could while being hurried in the opposite direction.

"Ah," her rescuer uttered at journey's end, contentment needing no translation. He propped upon a stool, signaled the barkeep, and refused to expound until she was similarly settled.

Since he seemed inclined to savor his drink indefinitely, Reni ventured to open. "My, uh, thanks, Senator..."

He employed the mystery red goop in a dramatic little flourish. "Besk Arr'skra, at your service. And please, anything _but_ 'Senator'."

Both charm and modesty were undoubtedly practiced, but Reni found herself put at ease nevertheless. "Only if it is 'Reni'," she countered. "Though I could be persuaded to invest in a flex-mask or two right now. Or maybe a makeover."

Laughter followed well-concealed startlement. "My sources were right about you, I see. But of course, how could any less be expected of the founder of such a delightful establishment?" Alien physiology was hard to read, but his eyes made a good show of twinkling.

"This? No, no, all credits go to Atton Rand and Bao-Dur," she protested, with pride. "I am just here to look ugly."

"Hmm? We have to work on your self-image, chumani." He waggled a clawed finger in parody of the Human gesture, then drew out a sip. "Ah. So. It is 'Jedi Rand' whom my gustatory organs have to thank, eh."

Besk seemed to find the conjugation amusing in the extreme, and Reni wondered "Did you know him, before?"

"'Before', as in some deep, mysterious past before being reborn Jedi? Haven't a clue," was the Bothan's cheerful confession, made in a tone that suggested much joy in the finding out. "Had a round or two late last night. Hmmm. Might have been three, or early this morning. Anyway, here was this Human with the Paza'ak deck, who didn't see fit to remind me of the 'Jedi' or 'boss' parts, mind you. Jedi modesty, one supposes."

The Exile watched the Senator segue from stern to mischief, mesmerized by his fluency in alien body-language. He flourished with a suggestive wink.

"Fascinating fellow. Just the right amount of shifty to not be tedious, if you like. The kind nice ladies like yourself all fall for, no? Heh. I'm not complaining. If it weren't for him, I'd still be languishing in the bore that Citadel Station was."

As little as she cared for cantinas and their ilk, one of Reni's specialties involved peeking from the other vantage. "Ground Zero of two major Sith attacks" did not sound like a particularly catchy line for tourists, or settlers, but "Site of historic Republic-Jedi negotiations" seemed more likely to appeal.

The "delightful establishment" hosting the latest ambassadorial party was an odd and oddly charming mix of realism and escapism. Darth Nihilus had, amongst sundry accomplishments, carved out Czerka Corporation's lack of integrity in a structural language. Sheared bulkheads and melt-frozen ceramisteel remained as testimony, not to mention the floor Senator and Jedi had just braved. Less "deck" and more imagination, it was an airy collaboration of shields and flexiglass. Only those with utmost confidence in Bao-Dur's wizardry -- or a suppressed sense of self-preservation -- perambulated with nonchalance.

Unique in its lack of apology, the locale struck a theme close to the Telosian heart. One could touch the permanence of scars in each blaster-painting. One could breathe the hope caged delicately within its slipshod bubble.

If nothing else, _The Fall_ lived up to title.

Having downed the last questionably orange dreg, the Senator set his glass down with a clink. "Mmph. Outer Rim Rum Drop. I'd ask if you'd like a shot, but I've heard that Jedi don't...? Makes a person wonder how our good Jedi Rand managed to come up with such an... eclectic menu."

**That's it? That's all you wonder about? What about the idea, permission, funds? A certain tech's cooperation?** The Exile permitted a shrug. "I am still at the 'astounded' stage."

"Ah, yes. Quite different, these Padawans of yours. Though you don't exactly make a case for status quo yourself, eh, Master Renani? Your appearance caused me to become quite embarrassingly discombobulated earlier, you know. We rabble tend to have mental holos of Jedi Masters that are, ahem. Let's just say that a pretty young thing like you doesn't exactly leap into mind."

"For some mysterious Jedi reason, I doubt if you have been 'discombobulated' a day in your life, Senator Arr'skra. Unless your audience was properly appreciative of the effort, of course."

Fur-rimmed ears flattened sideways, and Reni froze. **That is not _my_ mouth,** her unpaid judge, jury, and executioner pronounced.

"Well! I must protest, Master Jedi. Are you accusing me of being a politician?"

"I, I'm sorry, I am usually not so unwarrantedly familiar with--"

First one, then the other pointed ear reversed position, but asymmetrically so as to produce a lopsided end effect. "Ah ah, tsk. Call me 'stranger' now, and you shall truly break my heart."

Muscles relaxed more than they had done in weeks, even while purportedly asleep. Finding herself victim of an irrepressible smile, the Exile shook her head admonishingly.

She had many less-than-noble causes to wish a prolonged tête-à-tête, but "I hope the fifteen hundred was just a, uh, small misdirection?"

The Bothan bore no visible chrono, and made no referrals to an invisible one. Reni imagined the supposed aides to have much to say on that; the Senator however seemed to rely blithely on her word. "Sadly, no. Blasted things, clocks. Want to throw the galaxy into chaos? Take away the ability to run things on schedule, and your work is ninety-nined, I swear."

"Are you sure it's wise, revealing that to a Force-user in a position of some power?"

"Of course it isn't. I'm scheduled to go down in history as a schutta of the n-th degree." Then his tone and face fell, alerting said Jedi to the probable vector of two shorter Bothans. "Ah, right. Business, business, is it any wonder the average Core-Worlder requires counseling at least thrice per lifetime? Who could help getting depressed if they have to leave such fine ladies ten minutes after meeting them? The next time they" -- the accused being well within earshot -- "let me out, you'll have digested a whole adventure across the Outer Rim."

Reni could not help an attack of wistfulness. "I think your playtime will come far before mine, Besk. So feel free to perform another rescue or two if you get to stop by."

Jovial eyes sharpened. "Ah. About your situa---"

He never made the finish line.

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

Besk Arr'skra was a rare product of his culture, in that he could care less about games of intrigue and power. That said, his choice of career did not truly present a contradiction. The Senator considered himself foremost a connoisseur, and what better seats were there to the grand theater of sentient behavior?

Of course, even the court jester must know enough lest it be the door or sarlaac pit, and so it was that Besk had osmotically come by a modest array of reading skills. What little literature there was on the antics of the Jedi community was always a fun romp; he would sooner have surrendered that last crate of Cassandran choholl to you-know-who than miss out on the "informal gatherings" that were all the talk amongst his latest circle.

Two earfuls (in tandem) plus a tedious trip had been one of his more profitable sacrifices. He had not expected the Jedi Exile to be so amusing, in itself a fact worth half his official wage.

He had definitely not expected the bonus of a never-in-most-lifetimes experience.

Senator Arr'skra had been told to "shut up" a respectable number of times, the larger portion couched in less polite terms. Even the good-old-fashioned rag in the mouth had not managed to _make_ him shut up at first try -- groans and grumbles counted, didn't they?

He was completely, utterly silent now. "Not a blink" came to mind, which led him to worry whether the eyes were drying out while temporarily (one hoped) outside the yen.

His new acquaintance seemed unfazed by his sudden shift in verbosity, as well she might. Besk Arr'skra had been known to be wrong on occasion, but he didn't think he was wrong in assignment of blame this time. Otherwise, he might soon be in the unpleasant position of making his aides ecstatic by swearing off Rum Drops.

He went so far as to reflect that his current predicament, while not one to boast of in resumes, nevertheless did not seem overly dire. That was before he watched an impossibly swift form vault eight meters towards the far corner of the room.

When it resumed, his shuttle of thought had been spun around to the inverse conclusion: he should have waited to purchase the holorecord.

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

"--only 'Telosian entrepreneurs'. What laser-brains came up with that, I ask you? Like every Eriaduian rat and a half hasn't already fled the metropolis. Anyways, remember this Domo fellow of Vogga's who was all about to pull out his headtails after Reni. Guess where his--"

Mira the huntress had learned the easy way (through other people's experience) that no kernel of information deserved the fate of orphans on Nar Shaddaa. In fact, it was usually the obscure tidbits that landed the bounty, so it was with no hardship that she granted Atton Rand her immediate attention.

It followed that it was no insult when, midway through his sentence, she sprinted off as if a dozen mad Wookiees were on her tail.

Her partner-in-conversation, though, both failed to share the philosophy and was no miser with opinion after he caught up. Mira glared more at the apparent lack of effort than the habitual grouching; she was in no mood to be reminded of her stature. "Space it, Atton. There's something happening in there!"

"Sure there is." He eyed the sub-sized portal with disdain. "It's called 'death by politics', sweets. Where they talk and talk and" -- he obliged with an analogy she would not repeat even to Hanharr -- "until you'd be happy to drill your own head just to get rid of the overflow." The rogue grinned, then added an afterthought "Pardon the language."

The huntress powered up blasters, both those in hand and the pair heredity had installed. A triumphant part noted that the pilot's holsters was no slower in emptying. They shared a grim nod, each scoping one side of the door before venturing in.

Generic Bith tunes underlay the cackle of mixed tongues and verbal ranges. A dozen awkward incarnations of youth loitered, more intent on school-issue nota-pads than ones used for taking orders. Occasional outbursts from the nominally adult population could be deduced from the pattern of proto-journalist clusters.

All in all, as peaceful a tableau as one could expect of an inter-galactic, "censors off" gathering.

"You coulda just said you don't like the music," the proprietor complained, but delivered it sotto voce.

Mira weighed their options. "Intergalactic incident" burnt the one hand, depending on (in)ability to explain away back door and self-granted exception to a "no weapons, no exception" policy. "Intergalactic incident" froze the other, provided that premonition was right about an unhelpfully non-manifest threat.

**How does 'the Force made me do it' sound?**

Before her next thought arrived, a blur of burgundy nearly took out a red Twi'lek. By the time the worthy managed a scream out of an already open mouth, more on-time yells had marked the robed figure's destination. For the deaf, there were also telltale flashes of light.

Dilemma solved, the two unofficial Jedi made short work of intervening space, seeing as they could not do the same with time.

Only one of them arrived. It occurred to Mira halfway that mindless scurry was not the most praiseworthy of strategies, and Atton apparently picked up the same. He made a hideous face, but did not protest that longer legs were better put to the longer circuit.

While skirting endless clumps of hysterical beings, Mira vowed that he would get no sympathy from her. The bounty huntress was not fond of admitting when another was more suited for a job. Then she was staring at the gaily-plumed diplomat prone at the Jedi Master's feet, plus the body of a kid who couldn't be more than fourteen, and admitted to other motivations for wanting to shirk this duty.

There was no blood. That would be too normal, too much a concession to the fact that death did in fact _hurt_.

The Exile didn't so much as blink. Whiter and fatter than her signature silver lethals, the blade made a mask of her face and black holes of her eyes. The effect lasted one scant second before evidence winked out.

Of course, the bounty huntress knew better than to expect a greeting, polite or otherwise. The hiss demanding grenades didn't count.

Mira's eyes widened. Granted, she had been guilty of a thought or two these past weeks on whether the pilot or his (to all appearances) unreciprocated love interest was the one to fill her worry quota with. Still-- "Shebs, have you gone Sith?" mouth protested, even as hand reached into the pack of nasties that habit kept.

The older woman coated the proffering with disgust. "Adhesives," was the terse clarification.

"Oh. Um. Right." Her own unthinking complaisance unnerved her, and Mira wondered for one shaking moment if the Exile was employing some kind of mind trick. That fabled Jedi skill was the one subject the Master refused to even mention in passing.

That plus an assortment of worries did not last long, if only because events derailed thought.

An unexpected spasm overtook her lungs, breath suddenly as precarious as silence on Nar Shaddaa. She proceeded to realize that much of what she had condemned as mindless panic was actually parallel distress.

Jedi Master Renani, champion of the masses, began a liberal distribution of grenades. The strands constricted around limbs smooth and scaled, hardened over toes and hoofs. There was an intake of collective shock, from which Mira deduced that she need not fear being swamped by embarrassingly grateful beings.

"Hey!" scraped from the huntress' throat as the Exile starting shooting at thin air, not even appearing to aim. Given that she had more than threatened any and all who presumed to touch the very weapons the woman had so casually annexed, she congratulated herself on restraint.

The fact that her lungs were busy turning themselves inside out might have helped with the lack of verbiage.

A chain of sparks overruled those Mira were already seeing. Within moments, "thin air" became a diminishing reality. After the next few, the insatiable tractor beam of vacuum had drawn her halfway across the floor before she was even aware. Hands scrabbled instinctively for something, anything, so long as it postponed the inevitable.

She found another's hand, or perhaps it found her.

Heedless of byplays, the drama continued. There was another series of massive discharges, the first of electricity, the second of pure, unsullied oxygen. Mira didn't even begrudge the seventy (or was it eighty?) percent of "useless" atmosphere her fellow sufferers might have found more gratifying.

An external force hauled her to her feet.

"If, ack, gah." An impressive bout of hacking followed, but did not seem to deter speech. "If you wanted to hold hands, Mir, asking would've done it."

The huntress opened her eyes, the better to demonstrate disdain. "Keep it up, flyboy, and I'll leave you in that gunk." The fact that she managed one whole octave lower than usual was not the only incentive to curb elaborate threats.

Atton made some nifty come-back, but for once Mira was too busy to take note. After a judicious touch of Force, she concentrated on mental relief. Poisoning, foiled. Intergalactic incident, sidelined. Jedi Master, not demonstrably unbalanced.

Time to relax the rigor mortis her fingers had on a certain rogue's grip, right?

An unmistakable suit tramped into view. With the near-lost luxury of hindsight, Mira processed that the shots which had taken out the shield generators had not all been from her conscripted instrument. She took the Mandalorian's presence on stride, though. It was a given that the Exile trusted him despite -- or, more likely, in spite -- that nobody else did.

As they approached, the Jedi Master fell breakneck out of trance. Mira started a protest on behalf of one rudely discarded micro-pulse blaster, but never made it to deliver.

Vacant on descent, the Exile's hand rose extended by a spear of light that terminated two centimeters from the Mandalorian's throat. The man did not outwardly react, but she noticed that he held very, very still.

The huntress had actually been less surprised when demanded for grenades to use on a crowd.

The white beam vanished. The threat did not.

Many beings tended to lump Mandalorian disregard of fear together with Iridorian disregard for life. Mira knew better. Suicide for atonement was a respected thing, suicide by default was about as despised as death via stupidity.

She found the scene completely senseless. The Exile did not go about threatening her allies. The Mandalore did not stand calmly waiting for slaughter.

Yet here they were, and yes they did.

Guttural consonants traveled a possibly unintended distance through the pocket silence. The chill of the Exile's glare was louder still. Mira glanced around in order to be dismayed that the state of their fine laundry had not detained any from their duty of witnessing the spectacle.

Atton doled a tidbit of attention sideways, but she scowled. "You want a personal translator, go invest in a datapad," she hissed by his ear.

When he opened his mouth, she would have kicked him but for the threat of ensuing complaints. "Fine! Just keep it down. It was 'eternal vigilant', or something. And no! How am I supposed know what her Jediness means? This is the Exile talking. And if you're gonna wisecrack about how I'm a Jedi now myself, of all the--"

"Kessel! I didn't ask for your pants, too. What happened to 'keep it down', sister?"

The huntress prepped a pointed silence. It arrowed off to nowhere, the fellow's line-of-sight having already reverted.

The two principals turned as one to leave, heedless equally of laments and demands. Slump banished from square shoulders, drag dispelled from brisk feet, the Exile strode as if she had rediscovered purpose in altercation. That non-simple fact shook the huntress in a Hanharr-grip.

The audience was glued in place. Atton Rand was no exception, even the version with "Jedi" prefixed, but dark eyes clung to every ripple of the woman's passage. He, Mira decided, was without doubt the most unflattering company a girl could keep. What she couldn't decide on was which was more disturbing -- the naked hunger, or that which seethed beneath it.

She had sworn off trying to understand Jedi in general, exiled ones in particular. Her brain, however, persisted in cycling and recycling the possible contents of the other's head.

"So much for detaching, huh. 'Jedi Master' should've lectured herself instead of you, Atton."

The bounty huntress knew all about sympathy and just rewards. This one did not disappoint.

"Umron," he sneered, and not even to her face. "If she had ever intended that strike, you really think he'd still be strutting around with a head?"

The bud of a retort was trampled by the pilot's solution to his own sticky situation. Mira's eyes might not be as impressively waif-like as the Exile's, but they could hold their own in rotundity.

Mr. and Mrs. Rand had apparently been of the species that successfully passes down the importance of clean underwear.

She pursed her lips, not caring if it was in a huff.

* * *

The datapad clattered harshly to a still. She had not meant to, but somewhere along the slide from pocket to hand to top of console, the object had somehow attained unnecessary momentum.

Gloved hands retrieved the device. A few seconds later it was replaced, edge perfectly parallel to edge.

"You believe this."

Rather than insult them both with an answer, she started one foot before the other. "I am still waiting," she bit off in the betweens, "for that compelling argument which will supposedly keep the Fleet from shooting you on sight."

Intractability was writ in each of the lines he did not speak.

"Need a recitation of charges?" Regardless, she measured out one per lap. "Terrorism. Endangerment of civilians. Treachery under truce."

"No operation of mine would ever have been so sloppy."

"But of course! That will certainly help convince the tribunal. Especially when _that_ comes up."

He dismissed the indicated with disdain. "_That_ is unmistakably flarg. I would have seen the last emwhulb responsible dead if I had known."

"Your behavior may be otherwise completely incomprehensible, but that much I believe!" Feet descended with more force than artificial gravity. "The Fleet marshals don't, and won't."

"As I said, I had nothing to do with this."

"The Republic recognizes guilt by complicity."

"The same as they do 'innocent until...'?"

"It's not that simple, and you know it! Don't pretend to have forgotten whose territory you're in, or that the Mandalore are no longer recognized as a sovereignty."

_**Or why that is now so,**_ neither needed words to hear.

"Then perhaps it is time we reminded you."

Deciphering the object of that statement would require a thesis on interpretation.

Frustration sealed her eyes. "Is this some convoluted plan to map out my limits? Or do you simply have a fondness for this room?"

He stood stonily erect. She resumed pacing.

"My people called you the Wraith. We still do."

It was not the non-sequitur that stilled her. "That _thing_ died at Malachor V."

His glance elaboration enough. "This is not your field." There followed another hesitation. "Revan might, but you cannot win this battle."

"Escape pods are that way. There are even shuttles, for the discerning customer."

"This isn't about me! This is about you, and your gamorrean refusal to see that some wars are not yours to fight!"

"These are my people, Mandalore."

"These are people who would throw you to the firaxa, if they thought that would it get off their fat behinds."

"That is your excuse? If all who seek self-preservation at another's expense deserve to die--"

"_They_ are irrelevant. _You_ need reminding of who you are, all that you are."

"I am their protector, foremost! I could have removed the threat before it came to--"

"That is why you can only fail in this arena. These creatures will see nothing short of a supernova under magnification. They will live out their pathetic lives and never comprehend the most obvious of what you do 'for them'."

"That is the way things should--"

"--not be done. Not if you want to get anywhere with--"

"I will not endanger sentients for something as paltry as recognition!"

"That is my point, exactly! Leave this game for those who have nothing better to do. You didn't make General by not knowing how to delegate."

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

Many sentients assume that to be a warrior was to lack appreciation for the power of words. Many sentients are imbeciles not worth their weight in reconstituted molecules.

A true warrior recognized might in all its forms. A Mandalore warrior lived to pit and measure himself against all the guises adversity employed, least of which was the physical.

Nevertheless, had it been anybody else, Mandalore would have dispensed with the tedium of words and gone to blows a long while ago. Above the exultance of blood through his veins, he posited that news of his restraint might very well send a respectable horde into apoplectic shock.

Of course, had it been anybody else, he would never have found it worth the bother.

Righteous cold wavered from jetlike eyes. For one moment there was no remote Exile, self-possessed General, sedate Jedi Master -- just a youngling tempted by play. The next banished the mirage.

It was not a youth's face that he saw when he looked, and look he could not seem to help but do. Weather and worry had composed a fine script of wrinkles, field medicine had contributed punctuation marks. Modern cosmetics could have made swift work of both, except that their bearer was not of the type to take such pains. As well no warrior should.

Mandalore forgot, all too easily, how few number of decades the girl actually owned.

A herd of emotions trampled obnoxiously where that thought vacated. **Gah,** was what Mandalore told himself. What he said out loud was, "You aren't just the Exile, now. Let your troops earn their feed, General."

She had once claimed that their kind differed only in execution of ideals. He had believed her. Minus moral dressage, they were both of people who measured the universe by duty and necessity.

The intensity of her gaze shifted almost to hopeful. Seconds dripped by where he could almost hear a pile-up of all the voices in her privy. Then a curtain of lashes fell, and the leashed vibrancy drained from her on exhale.

The Jedi had always taken the prize for self-denial.

"I can't ask them to clean up my messes."

Her voice was meek. He was angry, but knew very well what not to pin on that persuasion. The opening had passed, but the battle would keep.

A hand lifted in unnecessary ward. "What we are here to discuss, is today's assassination. Attempted assassination."

He refused to spare another glance at the tumor benighting the console. "You didn't believe _that_. Why the assumption that I knew anything of it?"

"Are you denying that you did?"

She might, or so Mandalore thought with a certain humor, have appeared less surprised if he had confessed to staging the entire fiasco.

He was no scholar, but had never needed a dictionary to reject "slow" as an adjective regarding the Exile. It wasn't like any tome existed that could adequately describe the Exile anyway. In the meanwhile, Mandalore had a surplus of time, a dearth of entertainment, and the _Ebon Hawk_'s security room was as secure as they came.

He waited.

A hiss followed a shake of head. "You came up with the others, Mandalore. If you had not known anything of the scope and timing of the attack, you would have gone to secure the perimeter."

**No, not 'slow'.** "I see. Anybody who missed this deduction should be shot, naturally."

Puzzlement creased her features, and it was his turn at hints. "Of course, you might not have much of a Fleet left to execute me, after."

"You think they won't figure it out?"

"They will be happy to use your reasoning, I am sure."

The thoughtless way the Exile dismissed that scenario should have been disappointing. She mumbled something about Mandalore and sense that their current leader chose not to hear, then drew out a breath. "I suppose there's nothing to be done now, except hope this once for incompetence."

"It would take longer to wait for the opposite."

His comeback did not seem to impress.

"Might you at least share the amusement that you found so worth the risk?"

"I already have." Mandalore was not known for patience, but he did know much of adaptability. The battle would keep because the alternative was unacceptable, and anger was useless unless one could act upon it. He decided it was time for role reversal. "How did you know the shields would have come back up?"

"They are Bao-Dur's." Her tone could not comprehend lack of faith.

"Right. That Bao-Dur, the one who's been playing wenton for days."

"He... misunderstood my intentions." The confession was all reluctance.

He snorted. "Somehow, I don't think it's _those_ kind of intentions that you're talking about."

A tracery of veins bloomed on pale skin. "What do you take me for? I would never force... much less...!"

"I'm sure he lives in dread of the day that you might."

She turned away.

That rolled a chuckle off his tongue. "I take back the sitrep. It's not the tech who's in hiding, is it?"

Crimson cloth delineated precisely aligned shoulders. "Your point, Mandalore?"

"A man does what he can for entertainment. I especially look forward to how you'll convince those fops that bio-adhesive residue is the latest word on fashion."

A groan that was not one whit Jedi terminated a pause. He watched the Exile bring her head to rest on the bulkhead, and was floored by his relief that it had not been at damaging speed.

"Did you know? All those people who have ever signed up, and there was never as many as one legalite?"

* * *

_Day Zero_

The Jedi Exile marched the corridors of the Republic Frigate _Engarde_. She might have been aware of frightening ensigns and lieutenants and perhaps even the commodore or two who caught the rictus on her face, but it was of little concern.

For the first time in disproportionate months, the skin on her flesh felt almost like her own.

Startled brown eyes rebuked her unannounced appearance, though Bastila's lips remained wisely closed against a protest that would have gone unheeded anyways. Carth appeared as nonplussed by seeing her outside his friend's door as she was seeing him inside. An audience made what was about to take place even more awkward, but since it was to be the Admiral, it was perhaps just as well.

"Exile Renani. Was there something urgent?" Bastila asked in a tone that presumed the negative.

"Yes. Something that should have been settled three months ago."

Carth strung a puzzled look between the two. He had earned more than respect, so Reni omitted the wait she would otherwise have performed for Bastila.

"I am leaving within the week," she stated, but with a hint of apology towards the man. The rest of her words were for the woman. "You may inform the Jedi-in-hiding that there will be a meet in four day's time, starting at thirteen hundred Galactic Standard hours."

"Wha--" the Princess visibly caught herself on the brink of outburst. "You are in no position to make demands."

"I am not making any. I am simply informing you of events that will take place regardless of your actions. Or lack of them."

"This is preposterous. Carth is the commander of this ship, not you. He can--"

Though nominally addressing Bastila, it was to the Admiral that Reni spoke. "He can delay us if he so chooses, but not indefinitely."

He shrugged, unhappily resigned.

Bastila fused her eyebrows. "I told you that she--"

Their exchange threatened to degenerate into a game of "me tell you tell her". Reni's patience was also less than finite of late. "You are welcome to the many opinions I am sure you have. Please feel free to expound in my absence." She nodded again to their silent third. "I will ask a moment of your time later, Admiral."

"Stop!" The un-Princess tone was what managed to halt her exit. "You can't just decide that you want nothing more of duty, and expect us to scramble on your behalf!"

Reni glanced at the satina skirt, the jacket with hints of Firrerrean silk. The ruddy complexion might have been from catching the point, but then again might not. "It has to be one or the other, Padawan. I can't both be 'Jedi Master' when responsibility comes calling, and 'Exile' when 'the Jedi' do this or that."

Bastila confirmed the flush.

"Whatever you decide, I know my course. It is up to you whether 'your' Jedi start scrambling on their own behalves, or remain comfortably in their holes."

"Up to...! The Masters saw the danger our gathering presented to people, to entire worlds! What makes you think there is any way of contacting my brethren, especially since it is the very thing we spent years trying to avoid?"

Reni let displeasure out in a sigh, though its replenishment was immediate. "This is no time to play pretend, Bastila. The Council couldn't 'really' have disbanded the Jedi any more than they could have stopped listening to the Force. It would have been more believable to claim they did not trust you with the key. You could even have tried saying that you never tried to find out."

The dutiful Padawan was no doubt aghast at the insinuation. The Exile, however, had recently decided to permit herself her lack of care.

"Nihilus is gone. The Jedi-in-hiding have about as much impact on the galaxy as 'common' citizens, less if they're doing it right. At this point, it really doesn't seem to matter one way or the other whether a whole roomful joins up, or we have to start from scratch."

Jedi Masters, it seemed, were not immune to being petty. This one heard herself say, "Perhaps it is time you remembered the 'Jedi' part of your title, 'Princess'."

This time, no dissent kept her from leaving.


	10. Best of Men

**Best of Men**

_Day Zero..._

"Are you leaving because of the incident?"

Carth Onasi was no forge-bright cadet. He understood that a commander could only do so much, see so far. He appreciated that Bad Things happened regardless, and that true view of a leader was found in the pick-up and dust-off of soiled berets.

Failure hunched his shoulders, nevertheless.

The Exile's eyes were distant, but one corner of her lips elevated two degrees. "Which one?"

"Any. All. Does it matter?"

Seconds counted before she answered. "No. In honesty, no."

He suffocated a sigh, but sank deeper into his chair. No, it would not have mattered if there had been nothing more exciting in the works than a stubbed prehensile of some Ambassador's sixth limb. The chapter might even have hastened to loom had it been such a smooth run.

Some creatures were not bred for quiet. Others _could_ not be caged in quiet. But -- if one were lucky -- they sometimes alighted for a longer while.

And so, he had to be sure: "It wasn't the abduction?"

* * *

_Eleven days before zero..._

"--intolerable! This is precisely why the Jedi should--"

"--complete agreement. The--"

"--ss'yuirsss 't'k'ssy'nn--"

"--know we that not Sith it is? Deceived, much times have--"

"--always trouble, these Force--"

"--not be hasty, chash'nree. To eiknos is--"

"--more are in the coming? When heard you of--"

"--duty to prevent such--"

"--sshh'yreek k'thi'ssfftt! 'rrrstrri--"

"Oh, _no_ you don't!"

The last presented itself as an actual yell, traceable to the not-so-diminutive lungs of a red-haired, green-eyed fury. An arm moved with Force-enhanced speed and snared itself one Jedi Master Renani -- or, more accurately, the edge of the robe concealing one Jedi Master Renani.

The latter, who had not truly entertained escape except for one confessed second, perchance two, stepped up complaisantly enough. Since the possibly amusing alternative was to be dragged in by the scruff, she did not even complain. Or, at least, took pains to keep it to herself.

"Leaving the Padawan to clean up, huh? Very responsible of you, Master."

The lowered voice was unnecessary, Reni reflected. In fact, some rather impressive acoustics might soon be prescribed.

"Let me inform you that while you were off playing with your friend the Mandalore -- yup, the one you tried to kill, oh what was it, one hour ago? -- good ol' Mira has been busy, _again_, trying to fix the humongous _mess_ you made. And yeah, that includes the leftover goo!"

Exercising the judgment her ilk were famed for, the Jedi Master did not reciprocate by informing the bounty-huntress that it was fifty-three minutes, precise. Eleven minutes to transit to the _Ebon Hawk_, conveniently docked by the Ithorians' grace. Nineteen minutes to transit back (heavier system load, for some reason). "Discourse" had occupied a mere twenty. The remaining three had been for ducking miscellaneous limbs, possibly plus/minus an attempt or two or three to convince self of the advisability of retreat.

She doubted if the frazzled woman cared for a breakdown of the itinerary, however.

"The only thing I want to know is what that impossible brain of yours was thinking. Like, how you're gonna get us out of this big-time mess!" demanded the mind-reader.

Precognition was not a rare talent amongst Jedi, although _useful_ precognitives were. Youngling Renani had often wondered how the Universe permitted such a paradox -- if she could "peek" into what her future self planned, then who was it who thought the plan up in the first place?

It was a question that had annoyed many Masters, none of which had seen fit to reveal that said impatience was a postcondition of the title.

"--heard a single word I said? Oh yeah? You must think I'm yesterday's mark! Right, so what did I say?"

On some days, the Exile was pathetically grateful for Force-augmented memory. On most, she just wished for a clearly labeled "Off". She might, however, have been guilty of some small degree of pleasure in reciting verbatim the last ten lines of "Galactic Opinion on Jedi, Current, by Mira".

As said lines re-registered in her own ears, whatever modicum there was went down the chute rapidly enough to have satisfied the huntress, had the latter only known.

**Padawan Renani! Setting fire to Council chambers is _not_ an acceptable way of resolving a conflict in the schedule of meetings.**

The Exile let Mira grope for a retort half a minute longer than necessary, justification being so that it sufficed to produce just one of the facial arrangement called "smile".

"Senator Arr'skra. Uh, about the fifteen hundred..."

* * *

Atton Rand was acting the snerp, and he knew it.

"You know how eye-to-eye me and the witch were," he was saying, "and not just because she didn't have 'em. But I gotta admit she got it right once or twice. You don't do all that well in picking allies, 'General'."

A pale face pinched, but the Exile continued at a pace just outside the range of comfort for him to match. His mind burped up an irrelevant flash of red hair and short stride.

Atton Rand was acting the snerp, and he didn't care. It might even have been the point.

"Master Kreia died to teach me that lesson. I think the message came through." In her tone was that annoying, immutable respect. The pilot had given up wondering how she fit it in together with the rest of Jedi goodliness -- admiring a Sith had to be frowned on by the all-knowing Council, right?

He concluded that death must have put a significant damper on their style. "Yeah, yeah. Transponder's on, nobody's monitoring."

The Exile stopped to punch at a keypad. The transit station lit and beamed a standard, saccharine wait-for-service. Apparently, the gap it left in the agenda was at last large enough to fit one Padawan, for dark eyes finally deigned to meet his own only slightly lighter orbs. It was a while before she spoke, but no matter. Atton Rand was always glad to play stare.

He had only fading memory of a time when that gaze had been no-nonsense and bracingly direct. Even this one held a timidity that lanced through one part of him and beckoned the other with all that restitution had sworn off.

"What enchant a life to trace / pending death in every face?" quoth she on behalf of some obscure poet. "Besides, it's a recipe for self-fulfilled prophecies, straight up."

"Sure, right, charity is good for the soul and all. That won't stop the next scrag-end from putting a shiv through your neck! You can't be that naive, 'General'."

"No, I am not," she agreed with what he suspected was regret. "But when beings earn my trust, it is theirs until they throw it back at my face. I refuse to give up that much, Atton."

He caught mind's hand reaching for a deck, and dealt a corrective slap. Atton Rand, the Jedi version, had nothing to hide. Nothing.

Not even an impatient roll of eyes. "Well, some already have, or does it take death _and_ dismemberment to get your attention? You must have suspected the Mandy of something, or do you expect me to believe that was a lover's spat you had back there? And what deal on a sith-scoured rock could possibly be so urgent that bot-boy hasn't come running to baby his shields? All I got was a communiqué -- a communiqué, not even a holo-record! -- babbling about some tune-up or the other taking up all his precious time. And it's been like that for days, let me tell ya. Techie's just looking for an out if you ask me."

"But you have heard from Bao-Dur?" The question held an odd edge that the Exile usually never let free.

Atton didn't like it. "Hah. If you call a few measly bytes 'heard', yeah."

She nodded, but took her time about it.

"The _point_ is, the Outer Rim ain't no Upper Taris. You want guys like those two at your back? I though you were a Jedi General, not a suicide watch. It's just plain asking for-- and you're just never going to listen, no matter what I say, are you?"

"I always listen, Atton." However, nothing was forthcoming about said hearings being in conjunction with just consideration.

He ground his teeth. "Whatever. So, advice from Atton Rand isn't worth flarg; maybe evidence is. Didn't want to have to whip this out, but. Here."

The transit swooshed into existence. The Exile glanced between it and the proffered datapad, and took two seconds to chose the latter. She did not, however, forfeit speaking softly into the wrist-comm. before thumbing the display to "on". The pilot's brows drew in conclusion of who monopolized the other end.

"You! You Jedi!"

Reni's shoulders drooped. As a whirlwind worthy of the Force descended, the pilot turned to wondering if there was more to the Jedi Master's apparent hurry to pander to yet more outraged aristocrats.

According to the bright yellow duranex coverall and wisps of hastily-bunned hair, the Human woman approaching vector zero cared not to claim herself amongst them. The unconcealable curves and elfin face would however be the envy of many from that class, or so the male Jedi judged. Zeal rouged high cheeks and brought sparks to violet eyes. Slender, work-stained fingers fisted in one hand while the other brought a drag-footed teen up short.

For once not the one at the business end of an irate female's mouth, Atton made full use of the time to appreciate the aesthetics.

As if sensing his intentions, the awkwardly thin face of her escort scrunched into an impressively hideous scowl. Still, given that Human progeny spent a certain span of their lives resentful of everything and everybody, the pilot was inclined to allocate him as much thought as for an out-of-sorts gizka. It might even simply be the boy's way of expressing pleasure at having been propelled across the station corridor.

The fist lifted, flattened in a resounding slap.

His sabers were in hand even before the report from his ears... except that they weren't. Confusion pursued a steady increase as he tugged at the stubborn black cylinders; he had been so sure that he had rid his gear of all traces of glue.

The culprit turned not even one hair. She also appeared oblivious to all four welts on a darkening patch of skin.

Atton Rand was not.

"Madam?" The single word the Exile requited was of a flavor with field rations.

Jedi trappings were a recent addition to Atton Rand's arsenal. In was unfortunate that he had enough aversion to the wrong side of Stasis to forfeit the two steps towards curling fingers around a certain stem of a neck.

"Oh, it's da fine airs fer the grand Jed'eye lay-dy, issit? Ye just watch yesself, Jed'eye. Or mebbe ye'd fancy bein' a-called Sith. Ye're not foolin' this un, no siree. Eye knows yer kind. Pretendin' ta be all nice an' all, bidin' ye time ta suck da soul outta good folk."

The doll with an angel's face and a streetchild's tongue drew in her less offensive arm. The attached youth resisted, but the woman was apparently a wrestler on the side, for he ended up stumbling to "safety" behind her back.

"Well eye'll be fregged afore eye let ye think ye kin hurt me boy. We got insur'ans, see. I mebbe not much ta ye airs, but I knows folk. I got friends, see, and if anythin' else happens ta me boy or me they gonna let da whole world know just who ye are, Sith."

Lips itched to smirk, an urge Atton pardoned in view of the illogic of the spiel. Had the Exile been Sith, it would have pleased her mightily for "da whole world" to know. Had the Exile been the quiet sort of Sith, the woman would by now be spice-happy over sharing air with so "grand" a personage. Had the Exile even been a less "particular" Jedi, she would have been wondering why she had wandered all this way into the station, and what droyk was her kid doing, skimping school?

Atton Rand had been there. More often, _he_ had done that, albeit via more mundane techniques.

Then he glanced sideways, and levity dwindled like Tatooine mist. He had long ago concluded that this particular Jedi was dangerous -- not for the bodies by her feet, but for to look upon her was to realize how many things one failed and yet desperately wanted to be.

She audienced the rant with gravity, posture neutral and carefully lacking hint of what any halfway intelligent being must feel when faced with such absurdity. Atton thought it a wasted effort on all accounts. The aggrieved was too stimmed-up to notice, the Jedi seniors were too dead to care, and the rest of the Jedi (with exception of Padawan Princess) had yet to peek out from behind their security blankets.

"Me hubbs was a 'Public soldier, just ye know. Unner Cap'n Onasi, too. He's an Adm'ral now, da Cap'n, and he'll hear all about it sure as day if ye take that accursed blade ten feet near me boy again. Ye kind already killed me hubs by fillin' heads wi' all ye hero rubbish, tho' ye were all happy enough to be a-sittin' on ye bums while da Mand'lor'ns did in da rest o' us! Ye showed ye colors quick enough, dincha, Sith? I ain't lettin' ye hurt no more of me family!"

There was a certain magnetism in angry beauties, so Atton refrained from outright laughter. Realization, however, put forth words before it struck to him to censor, assuming he would have wanted to. "So the _kid_'s one of our would-be saboteurs? Ha. Looks pretty alive to me." Another thought visited. "All pieces intact, too."

The mother proved unexpectedly up to the vocabulary. "Me boy's a good 'un! Same as was his da, so go spread yer poison sommere else. We did just fine afore ye came and we'll do just fine right after ye leave!" She did not -- quite -- stamp her foot.

Surely it would not constitute one of those "intergalactic incidents" Mira worried compulsively about, Atton bargained with himself, if he were to indulge in a tiny smile.

"Yes, he is," Reni agreed. Her eyes were aimed behind the woman's shoulder, and there was a sudden spike above sullen resentment.

Atton Rand perked at the bouquet of fear and guilt.

"I think," the Exile continued, still intense on the boy, "I made a mistake." It was almost a full second before her attention shifted back to the woman, and half another before she said formally, "My apologies, Madam, to you and your family. I know it comes late, but if there were any medical bills..."

The bud of a mouth dropped open, then snapped back into a line. Her ensuing words, however, sounded like they had been stalled from hyper to sublight. "Just, just ye stay away from us." She paused, then thought to add, "And take ye accursed mee-nions with ye!"

Reni inscribed a half-bow. "If that is what you wish. I hope to trouble you no further, Madam."

"Yeah, ye do just that!" Jewel eyes now uncertain, she tarried for a few more seconds, then marched off. Still implacably gripped, the youth tripped after.

Atton rounded in. "What species' flarg was that? That woman was a joygirl if I've ever seen one, not royalty. And 'I made a mistake'? Come on! How more guilty does the kid need to get?"

The Exile remained staring after them. "Was," she stressed. "I can imagine queens with less comportment. She is to be admired, not scorned. Such strength was never asked of me, even when... How many people, do you think, can hope to bear half as well the hand life dealt her?"

Despite the address, he sensed that the confession was a private one, and had to look away. Dignity was such an indivisible part of this woman's mien -- even Force-blind and barely clothed -- that it was a short slip to equating "exile" and "sabbatical".

It occurred to Atton Rand then, to consider that the Order kept their Jedi supposedly above material possessions beyond robe and lightsaber. The subsequent question of what they had left one disgraced, helpless was-Jedi went down like a dose of raw caf.

"The boy," Reni continued more briskly, though still contemplatively, "the boy has learned his lesson, I should think. He was only selfish, for perhaps unselfish reasons."

"You mean, 'me boy' misses the cushy life back when 'ma' used to 'entertain', so if that nice sithy guy wants to swing credits for a little harmless espionage, gee why not?"

"Perhaps he wants to prevent her from ever having to again."

"Yeah, 'perhaps' will draw you a palace on Ryloth."

She sighed. "Yeah, I used to think that physical comfort is something a Jedi should scoff. Then I tried it on for size."

"You should know" did not follow, but that was where imagination served.

"How did you get Mira to shut up about her 'intergalactic mess' anyway?" he deliberately veered. "Or is Atton Rand too low on the firaxa chain to bother with details?"

"Never underestimate the lengths Senator Besk Arr'skra will go to be entertained." The shrug was uncomfortable, but the tone deliberately light. "I suppose it helped that the 'Jedi slash Sith' didn't actually kill anybody in her rampage."

"Heard something like that, but since when do you do resurrections?" He scrolled back to a revelation. "The 'lightsabers'! Hah. Let me guess, you'll want to move the Jedi on to shock-staffs, next."

"Unfortunately, they don't deflect bolts as well." A pause, then, "Okay, so it's 'not at all'." Another pause, then, "And they won't stand up to 'regular' 'sabers."

"In other words, they're what little Padawans run around swinging before they're weaned," leapt from the mouth of one recent convert to the utility of the Jedi trademark.

"Not quite. It is oddly difficult to get lessons across when they're unconscious. Though there have been some Masters who studied..." The present Master broke off, a wise decision since her only listener was about to rill out.

The transit tube noisily incarnated the next transport. Ponds of black lingered after the escape had diminished, then turned in calm assessment. "Suppose you are chasing down someone for questioning. The target is ten meters ahead and fast. What do you do?"

Atton scowled. "I hate it when you go all 'Master' on me," was the complaint.

She continued her gaze. Eventually, he answered, as they had both known he would.

"Whaddaya think? I'd set my blaster on stu-- oh."

She smiled like he was some precocious youngling. What stung worse was the betrayal of his reflexive appreciation.

"Yeah, well. Didn't know you could make them like that, anyway."

Eyes drifted to wistful. "I can't. But a friend could."

"Yeah, yeah. Bot-boy. Should've guessed."

Smile was next, in fading to grim as the Exile dealt with the datapad. That delicate grip between thumb and forefinger was cousin to that applied on one of (unfortunately) two sets of robes when she had tramped in post the pleasures of Dxun. She probably thought that nobody noticed how, well, finicky she was.

Atton Rand noticed everything.

Idly, he pondered on another observation: substitute just about anything for "the tech", and the Exile never seemed to notice. But the pilot had once tried mouthing some clever thing about Mira, and been rewarded with The Glare for days on end.

"No mystery about it," the Exile asserted without looking up. "If your name-calling hurt Bao-Dur, he is quite capable of correcting you himself. Mira is... Mira is different."

"_Don't_." The vehemence in the syllable shocked Atton himself.

Her attention was his swiftly enough, if halfway between puzzlement and annoyance. "I thought you wanted me to read this."

"So read that, and stay the frell out of my head!" The pilot could not explain the strength of his reaction, but the moment was not one in which he cared.

The Exile's face leeched of its already inadequate color. "I w-wasn't... No." She shook her head, dropping to a whisper. "I heard-- I thought-- No."

For the second time in the day, Atton's feet stuck firmly to ground while Reni took off. This time, it was something not-external that held him.

This time, she ran.

* * *

/#Bao-Dur!#/

He caught the flying bundle, if barely. It immediately grew arms that latched upon his midsection, inattentive of the Humanoid need for breath. A smile crept upon the tech's mouth even as he shook his head above the one that had buried itself in the crook of his neck.

/#Bez-Enth.#/ He gently but firmly disengaged, pushing the woman out to arm's length. /#It is good to see you, but we should not tarry. I came as soon as I could...#/

Color-lined lips spread in a smile that diffused up to honey-brown eyes. /#Of course you have time to greet an old friend,#/ came in chiding tones/#who, need I remind, has seen no horn or hoof of you for over a year!#/

/#I missed you too,#/ he murmured, but started towards the slope end of the structures behind her. /#We should hurry. Shuttle-hopping took me too long, and if the particle containment is--#/

/#Uh uh.#/ She remained firmly immobile, thus did his commandeered hand. /#No problem is so urgent that it can't wait until after dinner. Better yet, the morrow, when there is light enough to see.#/

Vision narrowed in confusion. /#You sent word yourself, Bez. I thought--#/

/#Well,#/ she cut in/#the problem turned out not to be so immediate after all. Come, we can talk in the warm, over a meal.#/

It was Bao-Dur turn to play statue, until she turned from tugging to look. /#Bez-Enth?#/

He saw the protest in the other Zabrak's throat, but so did she correctly deduce mutiny in his stance. More than anything else, though, the ensuing prefabrication startled. /#We managed to fix most of it. The rest can wait,#/ she stated, then shivered. /#Stars, it is cold! We can talk inside.#/

He felt in him all the quiet of a storm. /#The truth, Bez-Enth.#/

Defensiveness smothered a flash of guilt in her eyes... but he knew her, her fundamentally direct soul. /#The truth?#/ she spat, casting his wrist with force. /#The truth? The truth is that you upped and left us with one miserable recorded message thirteen months ago, just because you stumbled across that disgraced General you fancy yourself beholden to! Do you have any idea what I've gone through since then?#/

/#The only disgrace,#/ he spoke with care/#is in how the Fleet and Jedi rewarded her.#/

/#She abandoned you, Bao-Dur! You lost your arm because of her, and she abandoned you! Did she even remember you whe--#/

/#The General is not to blame.#/

/#Why can't you see that she used you? She is still usi--#/

/#_Enough_.#/ The volume startled them both, and he had to deliberately unclench fists. /#Enough, Bez-Enth,#/ the tech continued in a better facsimile of his customary mildness/#We have quarreled enough on this subject for you to know I will not change my mind.#/

The incandescence in the woman's eyes blazed almost to physical spectrum. She looked away, but experience taught him better than to think she had put the matter to rest. /#Fine,#/ she clamped teeth around the word. /#I'm freezing. Let's go.#/

Bao-Dur felt, but it was not the teething wind, the flaking air. Looking down, he was almost surprised to find nails still marking palms, and said palms ever so faintly trembling.

Bez-Enth was six meters away and counting, before all that he felt surrendered to follow.

* * *

"The next time you decide on an impromptu joy-trip, try and remember that the Mandalore do not wait well."

She did not move from cross-legged, palms upturned, head bowed. She did not wonder what had betrayed her location, nor how full-body armor had attained the flexibility required to darken this same space.

There were no footfalls, but the voice was suddenly closer. "Discovered how to hide from yourself yet, Exile?"

She did not startle. "You made a mistake."

"Hmph."

"You should never have followed me. There is no glory where I travel. Just pain, betrayal, and death."

"I wasn't informed of the 'following' part."

"My destiny will be a small one, if I can at all help it.

"I'd advise against stuffing krayt dragons into footlockers. Unless mimn'yet is your type of dish."

"The alternative is uglier than even you could claim to want, Mandalore."

"Know much about my desires, do you?"

"You will find Revan more quickly on your own."

"Youth. Always in a hurry."

The Exile remembered that they had a mutual acquaintance, one who existed in the wrong tense. It was a good thing her eyes were already closed, for they were dry with tears she did not know how to shed.

"Why are you here, Mandalore?" she asked, but knew that answers to both (implied) questions would not be contained in words.

After reeling a wait, he made an impatient sound. "What is this really about?"

Her heart resumed its unruly thudding. "I heard him," she heard herself confess to the last person she could imagine playing confessor.

Mandalore was recognizable by carefully cultivated, sardonic indifference, an armor more proof than any of mortal make. A Reni of any other time would have been curious of the suddenly exposed tension; the Reni of now only answered the question he gave no voice.

"Atton. I heard Atton."

Eyelids reluctantly slackened, unsurprised to find sight assisted by magnatorch. Greened to preserve night-vision, the diffuse illumination paintbrushed banks and banks of empty shelves. In unthinking flight, some instinct had nevertheless positioned Reni to face the wall that had separated two Duros merchants. To visitors, the divide was as ridiculous as ineffective. The Dobo brothers, however, had appreciated the significance of symbols.

One bumbling Jedi had rid Citadel station of both tenures, though only one by intent.

Laughter fizzled like champagne in her throat. "And no, that was not from reading your thoughts." The next word was a whispered "Yet."

"I have yet to accuse Jedi of being too sane," he said, reading hers. "Feel free to prove me right."

"It is worse now," she obliged.

The subsequent halt proved too long for one of them. "An expected trend of aging."

"Mandalore the Psychologist" was deserving of a smile. The verbally admitted "So is my falling apart" was not.

"I charge by the hour," he prodded.

"Why are you still here, Mandalore?"

"My health demands it," he growled. "Now get back to the point."

Reni billed a further five minutes before letting on, "I should never have let Kreia teach me to listen."

A snort summarized the diagnosis: "Obviously, she failed. Does that solve your problems?"

"Revan could always do that, and I..." Reni began, but found the continuation to be elusive. "I didn't even know. I could have sworn Atton spoke. With his mouth."

"Yes, that is common to most Humanoid species."

"I can see why you come so highly recommended."

"I'll admit that hearing Rand's thoughts may be a traumatic experience, but you Jedi have been doing it for millennia."

"Not without effort! Not without _knowing_. I couldn't tell the difference. I still can't tell the difference. And it feels, now it feels like if I just let go the littlest bit, I'll hear all of them. Everybody, crowding in. Like standing in a riverbed, waiting for the dam to fail..."

"So what kind of atin just stands there?"

"'Stubborn'? Too mild, Mandalore. And isn't that a compliment anyway?"

"Noted."

It was only two flaps of near-translucent skin, but she was so weary of the lifting.

"I can still see you, Exile."

"Can you?" she asked, but did not want to know. "And what do you see, Mandalore? A killer. A tear in the Force. A scream that just won't stop echoing."

His frustration crackled through senses, the keenness of which she had so suddenly found despicable. "I. See. You," he intoned, in an address targeted for the particularly slow.

Reni laughed again, with just as little mirth. Some day, she would call the man on his "plain warrior" persona.

**But not today.**

Sound perished on a sigh. "Alright, alright. I am done with the self-pity and melodrama. What did you need to speak to me about?"

It was some minutes before he replied.

* * *

_interlude_

In reality, the room was easily the largest open area onboard, chairs and tables having been unbolted and shoved unceremoniously out of the way. However, only five square meters of it held focus, a fact not only due to dilute emergency lighting. The ambulatory soul did not need ambient moans and pain-filled shuffles to fill in the repeated tableau. Makeshift bedding, unhappy camper -- five square meters was enough to seed the mosaic.

A Figure emerged, swathed so thoroughly that it might have been the crowding gloom personified. Uncertain steps escorted it to an adjacent heap, careful descent brought it to knees. Some minutes after the prone stilled its restlessness, the Figure rose. The recovery from the simple motion testified to a lengthy circuit.

The same mysterious intent vectored it into the five square meters of Universe. Some unseen force brought it to staggering halt half a meter short.

There was nothing controlled about its fall this time.

The Observer knew this place: an annexed mess hall of a Republic Frigate, occupants persuaded to groans of a vastly different sort than over food. He knew the Figure, though it had yet to reveal voice or face. He even knew the Script: the wordless study, the implacable leave.

"Force," stole in a whisper so low as to be robbed of gender, race, identity. Unprepared for the novelty of a voice-over, the Observer might have jumped but for the lockdown on his limbs. Its progenitor covered the last meter on fours.

It was not a child's exuberant crawl, but a last resort of the overcome.

The mode of transport profoundly disturbed he who watched. He strained to shout **_things are not as they seem!_**, to wake the delinquent to a crux he would forever regret missing -- yet his role remained as passive as the one he would chastise.

The Figure looked, but denied itself touch. Only its voice crept the remaining inches, the familiar cadence oddly diffuse, as if it was the very air that spoke rather than some bodily orifice. "Fo--" it began to repeat, then aborted the word with a shudder. "What have I done?"

**_Nothing you did not have to,_** fizzled on the Observer's frozen tongue.

The Figure laughed, yet there was no motion to it. "I am truly a monster, to find comfort in that you are not able to see me like this."

His vision blurred from anger, at the Sleeper, at events. It had to be the call of some malicious deity to have arranged the Figure's awakening into this particular umbra, the one hour in endless days when fatigue had forced the Sleeper to forsake vigilance.

The cowled head made a painstaking sweep, breath increasing in harshness. Its unseen gaze alighted on the ugly swath of bandages swallowing a limb, where it remained as minutes eked on.

"I can't help you," it whispered, defeat heavier than cloak. "I never was much of a healer, was I, my friend? I could only take away pain, and dared to complain about it. Now, I only wish..."

"But wishes are useless. And I, I am... worse. It, the universe, it feels so... hollow. I can't-- I am always going on about me, aren't I? You, you would understand. More so, now-- stars! What have I cost you? What have I cost us all?"

The Observer watched the Figure crumple, huddling in on itself as if its monologue had been a leak of something fundamental. Perhaps the loss had been evident much earlier, and it was only his negligence that lent contrast.

He did nothing, but fumed at the durasteel bars of inaction.

"Blood will be demanded," the inexorable prophesied. "People might be happy that the threat is ended, for now, but it will not be long before they discover the price. And then..."

"They will need somebody to blame. You, you too, will need somebody to blame."

He was helpless to protest the conclusion it next drew.

"I cannot cost you, any of you, that as well."

The Figure rose, a movement born of will and nothing else. Memory and knowledge painted for the Observer the sad smile he could not actually see. "You will not understand what I must do, I think. You have always given me too much credit. You will be angry" -- it faltered, then drew breath -- "That is as it should be."

"Serving with you has been the greatest honor of my life. Perhaps," it continued a little later, though without conviction, "there might come a day when you can think about me not too unkindly. Our paths will never converge again, dear friend, but I, I..."

One limb finally unlocked... but opportunity -- and Figure! -- had fled.

On one fringe of the five square meters, a shadow stirred. Its vantage was not so much concealed as ignored; certainly, it made no effort to hide displeasure at both entrance and exit of the specter. The disapproval lingered long after it had returned to the subject of its interrupted study.

Neither Observer nor Sleeper were of a mind to notice.

_end interlude_

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

In one blink, Bao-Dur transited to awake. Sight registered nothing beyond the vagary of dark, but he would have noticed nothing were it light.

The Dream had not visited for over a year. He had always dismissed it as some unfathomable fiction of his subconscious, ambivalent as to comfort or torment.

Now, while eyes registered nothing, he perceived a searing, belated clarity.

**Ten years.** Lids shut on the thought. **Ten years.** The sheer waste was crippling, and the tech was suddenly terrified of ceding another ten, or twenty, or--

The unfamiliar surroundings cost a little fumbling, but proved no real obstacle. Determination spurred, willing and about to forgo jacket despite an inhospitable outside.

/#Bao?#/ Not two meters distant, the voice was sleepy and annoyed.

/#It is nothing, Bez-Enth.#/ He tried not to sigh. /#Go back to sleep.#/

Undertone grumbles heralded the click of an old-fashioned switch, the subsequent blind of light. He could almost hear the General: "Oof, Bao-Dur. Didn't we discuss 'reverse psychology', already?"

/#First you sulk all through dinner,#/ admonished the only physically present female/#then you sneak off in the middle of the night. How is that supposed to sum up to "nothing"?#/

Many were the words that begged to be spoken, but prohibited for the sake of peace. He reminded himself again that loyalty, however mis-expressed, did not deserve all the vitriol temper wanted to unleash. /#I need to use the comm.#/ was the edited version.

She made a show of consulting the wall chrono. /#It is nearly three past midnight!#/

/#So it is, and five in the evening at Citadel Station.#/

It became immediately obvious that, if anything, the argument counted for negative weight. /#Don't tell me. Her Lordship requires that you attend her at all hours.#/

Deciding that "actually, she wants me to go away" was a particularly pitiful retort, he settled for /#There are things you don't understand, Bez-Enth. The situation is... delicate.#/

Her expression darkened. /#Oh, of course. Nobody outside of "the General's" clique can possibly understand. We're all imbeciles, after all.#/

He felt, acutely, the passage of time. /#Why are you so upset, Bez?#/ he asked. /#This is not like you.#/

There was truth in the statement. His fellow Iridonian was possessed of a flash-fire temper, easily ignited but equally as ephemeral when quenched. The bitterness embedded in both tone and stance was bewildering.

/#Why am I--#/ she halted the incredulous tirade with a harsh shake of head. /#You really have no clue, do you? Fine. We'll go to the comm. center so you can satisfy your sense of duty. Then maybe things can finally get back to normal around here!#/

Bao-Dur bit his tongue, finding it prudent to _not_ comment that "normal" tended to read like "high adventure" with the General around.

* * *

_interlude_

"Deal's off."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Deal's off! I expected it, you know. The minute 'token of confidence' was mentioned, actually."

"There appears to be a misunderstanding. We have adhered to the letter of the agreement."

"Right. I must've signed up for terrorism-by-proxy in my sleep."

"The stipulation was for no direct harm to result from use of the information. None was."

"Oh yeah? So that poison gas thing was just a party trick?"

"I reiterate: no beings came to harm from the incident."

"No thanks to your wannabe suicide-duo!"

"The intent was only to issue a warning. You must surely agree that it is unwise to re-establish the unhealthy dependence the Republic had on the Jedi, especially under its current leadership. If an apprentice could overcome the more significant twin..."

"'Overcome'? 'More significant'? Oooo, how politic."

"The facts remain."

"Your 'intel' could really use some work on the 'intelligent' part, you know? This is Darth Manipulator we're talking about. You think Revan didn't know exactly what species of knot she was twisting Malak into?"

"Are you claiming that Revan staged her return to the Jedi? It is extremely unlikely that a mind wipe could have forwarded any of her plans."

"So maybe she missed that detail. Turned out just fine anyway, doncha think?"

"While your talents are undisputed, Surgeon, there are others more qualified to speculate on Revan's motives, and we have had no indication--"

"You think Reni hasn't already worked all this out and more? You think you've got dibs on everything she might think? What do you all yourselves again, the Society of Idiots? No wonder ol' Revvie had to tidy up her playground. But I really am a nice guy underneath, so here's one for free:"

"Revan is... flexible. She'll do anything, and I mean anything, so long as the chips eventually fall her way. Now, you might think that Renani is the same -- which is a sore sight up from buying her 'Revan's stronger' act -- but you never know where you'll hit duracrete on the oddest things."

"You wanna pick one to be more afraid of? Frankly, both gals terrify me."

_end interlude_

* * *

"What?" Mission Vao blurted, a laugh tinting her soprano. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Azzam Zahid-Sharif of House Baraka ("answers to 'Az'", pronounced "Ah-z") demonstrated how brilliant teeth could be against olive skin. A shake of head followed, obsidian beads in obsidian hair clacking musically with the movement. "Just a man's silly astonishment, that such an accomplished young lady has yet to set foot on her homeworld."

For one whole minute, Admiral Carth Onasi actually considered tolerating the man, for his last snapshot of the Twi'lek girl's giggle was four-plus years old. Then he recalled every nuance of Az's smooth baritone and even smoother charm, and nixed the urge as ridiculous.

An irritating voice nagged that his dislike of the Ambassador might merely be proportionate to "the ladies'" enjoyment of the latter's company. Carth dismissed it with a claim of being above such. It was only natural to be concerned for his friends, especially when "friends" were one impressionable young girl plus one sheltered Jedi.

He chased the unjustifiably un-appetizing appetizer around his plate, and missed Kaelynn horribly; even Revan would have been welcome substitute. His mind's furnishings of irreverent comments and sniper-shot humor, a la the absent, simply never measured up to the real thing.

"You've been all over Ryloth, I'm sure," Mission declared wistfully. "What's it like?"

Az did not need further cajole to launch into a lyrical description of wonders sampled, all the while subtly underlining how the girl's "beauty _and_ grace" was exemplary of her species. Mission rolled her eyes, but the delicate pink of her cheeks deepened nonetheless.

Carth had to admit, if grudgingly, that the Ambassador had finesse. He flirted, but lightly, without guile, displaying both sharp intelligence and a becoming modesty. It took all the Admiral's paranoia overtime to muster any degree of discomfiture, and even that was swiftly eroding.

Then Bastila spoke, and Carth was reminded all over again.

"I must apologize for my fellow Jedi, Amb-- Az." She smiled beautifully, though her forehead hinted at a frown. "One would think that four years in the military is sufficient to learn punctuality, but..."

One multi-ringed hand lifted in a careless wave. "No need, no need. The Master Jedi is a busy woman, and I can hardly complain about waiting in such delectable company, can I?"

Even more than Miss Jedi-should-not-form-attachments's blatant regard, something about the way Az titled Reni was disturbing.

The older female issued a silvery laugh. "You are quite the ladies' man, Az. But we are on to you, aren't we, Mission?"

Privately, Carth opined that the knowledge did not seem to be doing either of their sensibilities the least bit of good.

He also wondered how the other man could smile as much as he did, and yet make each occasion seem like the first bequeath.

"I would not dare think otherwise. Matriarch Baraka did not raise her heirs to be fools." Concern entered Az's brow for the first time. "I am not offending you, am I? I have heard that the Jedi -- how shall we put it? -- discourage certain aspects of life. One so beautiful, however, must surely be used to male appreciation. It is a bad habit, I admit, but please believe that no insult was intended..."

Bastila tried to hide a smile, though not very valiantly by Carth's meter. "I am not offended," she said softly, then colored at how shyly the sentence had turned out. Chokolat eyes flicked somewhat guiltily to take in her older acquaintance's visage.

He cleared his throat in what he intended to be a warning manner. "So, what did you say your business was with Reni again?"

The other raised one sculpted black eyebrow. "I believe I said it is something only she can decide to share," he said. "Though you are to be commended for the attempt, Admiral Onasi. Not many can boast of friends like you."

Forty seconds later, Carth was no closer to formulating a reply that could pass as anything but petty. Fortunately for his pride, he made up with a sighting of one distinct red robe.

The Exile navigated intervening tables without looking up from something in hand, which probably would have had Bastila ready to pontificate on "frivolous use of the Force"... had the latter not been preoccupied with impressing a certain personage.

"Sorry I'm--" Having looked up, she never made it to finish. Later, on hindsight, Carth would think that either the datapad or the Jedi looked all but poised to fall. Had she mustered a glance his way, he might have been confused by accusation in her eyes.

Not missing one beat, nor one too-handsome smile, the Ambassador rose in a courtly bow.

"Aleen," he greeted, voice rich with warmth. "Or, should I say, Jedi Master Renani?"

* * *

"Sorry," the synthesized voice pronounced unapologetically. "Link O-87-CS cannot be established at this time. Please try again."

/#Nothing has changed since the past hour, Bao-Dur,#/ came a voice across the tech's shoulder. /#Just leave it for the morning!#/

He shook his head in a fit of irrational stubbornness. /#I have said you need not stay,#/ was repeated as immediately as the last time, then just as swiftly put aside. /#This cannot be in the hardware,#/ he told himself/#Uplinks to other outposts are functioning. Perhaps a ride on one of their channels--#/

/#You haven't had any more success the last, what, twenty times? Look, you're tired, I'm tired, and it is only three hours to sunup, so can we please quit this before you rouse the whole colony?#/

Swallowing a sigh, he managed not to point out that her voluminous protests were the more likely to cause the latter. /#You don't have to hover, Bez-Enth.#/ He censored a fervent "please!", and continued/#I am old enough to stay up nights.#/

/#Oh ha, ha. Who did you learn your humor from, "the General"?#/

The mystery of her resentment was still such, though figuring it out had admittedly been nowhere near high on Bao-Dur's list of priorities. /#You could help,#/ he tried a different admonishment. /#You are always the better with computers, and I believe this a software issue.#/

/#Not good enough for your General, apparently.#/

His efforts stilled for a moment, as he wondered if that might be the underline of her ire. It was plausible, although his side of recall claimed that the General had sought Bez-Enth's approval far more than vice versa. /#Your technical skills were never the reason you were not chosen to be part of her team,#/ he said, trying to decide how much insight to reveal.

/#You're right,#/ she allowed, inciting a double-take. It was soon to be disappointed by the elaboration/#Reason was more like, Miss Widow-maker couldn't stand seeing anybody else within ten meters of her pet tech.#/

Astonished to speechlessness, Bao-Dur could only wonder at how ten years' in absentia could have resulted in so skewed a construct of history. He wondered too that he had seen not the slightest build-up to the present storm, even if the War was not a subject he had been willing to dwell much on.

In truthful moments, he had to admit to refusing to speak of it at all; quiet reminiscences with the General on Dxun had been the first time he allowed that another might understand. While he regretted the fact that Bez-Enth had found his reticence hurtful, he could not regret the silence itself.

Some confidences should not be inflicted, even if demanded.

/#That is not fair,#/ he rebuked, turning grave eyes to her/#and not at all as I remember things.#/

/#Of course not. Ten years, yet you remember every detail about _her_.#/

/#Do you think,#/ he asked with knifing brows/#I would have forgotten _you_ in ten years?#/

Eyes locked until the darker pair sidled in remorse. Ferocity draining in a long sigh, Bez-Enth laid a reconciliatory hand upon his arm -- the intact one, knowing him to still be touchy about the other. /#I hate it when we quarrel,#/ she murmured.

The confession, vastly divergent from all he knew of his friend's temperament, threw a snare upon his thoughts. For the first time, he noticed the weary that wrinkled her features, the unhappy turn of her mouth.

/#It's just that-- never mind. I will help you tomorrow, I promise. But please, I cannot think at this hour.#/

Bao-Dur nodded, feeling abruptly ashamed. Still-poised fingers flexed, then resolutely aimed for "off".

He allowed himself only one backward glance.


	11. Pieces On Board

**Pieces On Board**

_Day Zero..._

Renani shook her head, right fingers worrying a thread out of left sleeve. The grey robes she had mysteriously begun parading failed dismally at flattery, but succeeded in helping Carth enforce lines between the twins. Color-coordination was apparently neither part of the Jedi nor General job description, for black on white on grey made the Exile look almost sickly sallow. In contrast, the Revan he knew managed to make even Jedi garb dazzle.

At times like these, the Admiral found it becomingly easy to forget the trifles, such as gripes at the ages _she_ took to groom.

"I don't believe Telosian protesters staged the kidnap," she said, bringing him back to focus. "It was too planned, too, well, too obvious." Her choice of the last word was halting, as was the coming sentence. "I think, it feels, like someone very well-connected, very powerful, was trying to... almost like... I don't know."

"Then it will be more dangerous if you leave," the Admiral stated firmly. "I know it must look like we haven't been doing much of a job, but we never anticipated" -- he took a breath -- "Security is on alert. You, your people _will_ be sa--"

"No," she interrupted, eyeing him. "Don't hold yourself to such promises, Carth. They are unfair to all, and cannot change anything."

He swallowed, snatched one hand back from re-arranging datapads on his desk. "Is it that Ambassador? But the problem has been cleared up! Whatever other holds he has on you, surely they are all in the past..."

* * *

_Ten days before Zero..._

"I think Bassy likes him," Mission whispered, re-enacting blue imp. It was, unfortunately, a performance the bile in Carth's gullet made impossible to savor.

"Bastila is Jedi," he tried to convince himself. "She has got to know this 'Az' is nothing but trouble."

"Why, Mr. Onasi! I never took you to be the jealous type."

"This is serious, Missy," he snapped, though it felt like an admission to the "old geezer" she so enjoyed needling.

"I am too serious! Az is a good guy, even if he likes to flirt. You didn't think Bassy was gonna pine away forever for y-- ah, uhm." The last sparks of temper dissolved in a sudden inability of indigo orbs to meet brown.

"What do you mean, 'pine'?" He sharpened his gaze, indulging in a yen for Jedi mind-powers. However loath the claim, said powers might also have seemed attractive once or twice in the past. "Who's the bastard?"

The Twi'lek muttered something under her breath, but he could not cajole enough to breach her silence. Loyalties, it seemed, had shifted somewhat since Carth was last around.

His attention sidled to the red robes slouched besides Bastila's regal carriage, as the nominal "they" fielded yet another discussion a.k.a. accusation-lobbing session. The Exile constituted the one female of his acquaintance not blatantly taken in by the Ambassador's ready smiles, polished wit, and -- he had on good authority -- "scrumptious looks".

Carth frowned again at his educator on all things Prince Charming. The less shiny side of the credit was that there was something disturbingly unhealthy about Reni's responses. She had been quietly distracted for days beforehand, but since the strange reunion two days ago with her Rimworld "friend", he'd almost been tempted to ask if her Force repertoire included vanishing acts.

The golden baritone calmed the umpteenth bout of hysteria, enough for Bastila's mezzo to repeat whys and wherefores of believing the Sith not to be credited the recent jeopardy. The arguments seemed to be forgotten just as quickly as they had been the last ten-plus times. Admittedly, "nobody died" didn't impress the Admiral's own set of ears that much, either.

As an only variation from listlessness, he thought he caught Reni in a flinch.

Conspicuously absent was her unlikely, self-styled protector, Mandalore. There was little doubt of everybody else's preferences on the matter, but Carth found himself unexpectedly ambivalent. Fickleness had never counted in all the faults he found with Canderous, so the apparent desertion was ominous. Besides, he admitted to self, the Mandalorian would have had no compunctions against rectifying a certain Ambassador's notion of proper place.

One of the most detestable aspects of Carth's new job -- the adjective relevant even after three years -- was the latrine-duty aliased "political correctness".

"I dunno how _some_ people can be _so_ ungrateful," Mission grouched. Defensiveness rose in the Admiral's throat, then he noticed the direction of the glower. "Az has been doing all the 'Jedi Master's' work for her in these conferences, even when she's nothing but awful to him. I mean, when's the last time you saw her without that _look_ on her face, like she thinks he's a madclaw or something?"

Having been tempted to adopt the same for himself, Carth refrained from comment. He also congratulated himself for not pointing out that diction really did not need to be dressed up with at least one emphasis per sentence (Dustil had not been particularly grateful of such corrections).

Oblivious, the girl continued her furious mutter. "Poor Az. Love must really be blind for him to still be chasing after that, that, icicle of--"

"Whoa!" Several heads turned, to which Carth bared teeth in what he hoped came across as dismissal. "What are you talking about, 'love'?" was hissed at a more discrete volume.

"I heard him propose," she stated with conviction. "Nearly made me fall off the-- ah, did you know that Az's people are polygamous? He's never married though. Been waiting on Miss Tease there, I suppose." Her headtails swung, disbelief marring her face. "Can't imagine why he would want such a--"

The paternal instincts the kid professed to be irked by turned on, full force. "That's not very fair, Mission. You haven't spoken ten words to the woman."

"Anybody can _say_ anything," came the sage defense. "It's what they do that counts."

Tongue itched to point out that she didn't seem to have any issues when the smooth-talker was a certain dark-skinned, thick-lashed male. Experience counseled against providing fodder for rebellion. "Mission, what Rev--"

"I don't want to talk about it."

The clinch was, he didn't want to either. It was Kaelynn's role to get everyone to mutually communicate. It was Carth's role to contribute the occasional glower or, very, very rarely, rend out a confession.

"Miss--"

"I," she declared with the conviction of youth, "think he's much better off with someone like Bassy. With the old Jedi Council gone and all, there's plenty of room for change in the Code. The chant about love blah blah Dark Side is getting old anyway."

Two pairs of eyes, one brown, the other indigo, played avid subscribers to the ongoing saga. Each time a doubt of the future role of Jedi arose, Senator Arr'skra and Ambassador Baraka bid to answer. Each time the latter scored, Bastila flashed a subtle smile, lines flexed on the Exile's back, and something unpleasant coiled at the back of Carth's throat.

The Admiral propped one elbow, trying to rub his forehead without advertising the fact. Every last drop of paranoia swam dizzily in an ocean of disturbing new concepts.

* * *

The tide of passengers in the bulk freighter _Blazoner_ ebbed warily around a certain six-by-nine square space, despite the crimp it put on styles across the rest of the deck. After all, arriving cramped and disgruntled was preferable to arriving sans bodily parts. The shunned locale housed two droids, plus one being who looked like that full-body armor might not just be a costume of academic interest. The bipedal droid had a whiplash manner of focusing on passersby, and the small utility model had been ascertained to be even more temperamental than reputed of its kind.

The whole to-do was fine -- more than fine -- by Mandalore. He had considered appearing undercover, or at least as a (mostly) anonymous Canderous Clan Ordo, but dismissed the plan for being less efficient. Whomever had gone to such pains to imply Mandalore's hand behind certain schemes would best be rooted out if Mandalore himself was on the prowl.

In actuality, the only thing that surprised him about the hunt was the role he had been "honored" with. Beside Revan's, the Wraith's head would be one of the most coveted scores for the people the duo had bested. Perhaps more so, even, for the elusiveness of its identity made it a trophy worthy of the most cunning. The title had, after all, been an all-purpose euphemism for "situation farkled".

The single variable was, if some bright pup or wily old hound had come so far as to postulate that the Jedi General, returned to make headlines, was one and the same with the Wraith. If so, she would be safer out trolling the Unknown Regions.

Once the girl got past castigating herself for the earning of her notoriety, he was convinced that she would appreciate the irony.

Three days and too many cul-de-sacs later, Mandalore had progressed from grim to grimmer. And, despite a presently lazy pose, beginning to feel the edge of fatigue.

He had not gone sleepless, of course -- that was a greenhorn's last mistake -- but for odd reasons had not found it as easy as usual to switch off. With HK-47's over-eager vigilance, he had not even the necessity of keeping watch to blame.

He was not to venture without the droids, the Exile had stated, the proverbial Jedi Master passing down doctrine. He might have, anyway, but for the threat of having them sicced on and fudging up his trail.

Mandalore snorted at the memory. Five steps away, two Selketh children with curiosities too big for their bodies finally wizened up and fled. While he had nothing against younglings (a necessary, if inconvenient, phase of life) it was fortunate for them that he saw no honor in taking things out on bystanders.

Compounding the foulness of his mood, he found himself dwelling atypically on past decisions: **Should have ditched the tin cans. Can't move ten steps without tripping over one of them. The Exile's one to talk, when exactly who is watching _her_ back?**

The ratios in which the individual arguments weighed was not up for discussion, even with himself.

A judder in the grav system induced a couple declarations of pain, followed by a hush in the chatter around the sole, flashily armed passenger. The decibels gradually resumed as the _Blazoner_ continued its blithe, plodding defiance of moniker.

Back against bulkhead, the very picture of unconcern, Mandalore permitted a memory, at most two, to assuage boredom.

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

_interlude_

/#Sitrep!#/

Jareb Ordo, nominal second-in-command and distant cousin (in that order of importance), performed a sharp about face to keep up with he who had just arrived to be met. While Canderous Ordo rated as a relatively compact specimen of their people, Jareb had grown up being teased "tiny". He matched the other's no-nonsense stride to a beat, however, having learned and learned well the import of appearances.

/#A-go,#/ he rapped out with some pride. /#The hut'uune all died before hitting the floor.#/

/#Don't brag a kill before gutting it,#/ Canderous snapped, impatient. /#Or did you forget how many brothers have dared the same?#/

/#We have them penned in,#/ came the confident rejoinder. /#Revan cannot delegate a challenge so close to Core Space, if only for political reasons. He will be there.#/

/#Revan's presence was never a problem; any ad'ika with a nose can track him by the stench of battle. The problem is, he has this Sith-spawned habit of slipping out before party favors are ready to be distributed.#/

/#Even Revan must obey the laws of physics. We have "acquired" control of outposts on all sides, and there has been no indication that the Republic fops have noticed.#/

The senior Ordo was unimpressed. /#A trap that fails to spring is worse than no trap at all. How many times has Revan worked our "ambushes" against us, now?#/

The other's black brows nearly crossed in a frown. /#We have studied these stations for months. There are no communications we cannot replicate.#/

/#Really.#/

/#Besides, we are not operating on a set pattern this time. Even if the accursed Jedi can really see into the future, the number of possibilities must overwhelm them.#/

/#I don't need you to tell me what I had hand in planning!#/ Canderous rebuked, though to no apparent effect. /#Revan doesn't need to know in advance where attacks will come from, if he has a method of locating them.#/

/#How can he?#/ Jareb shot back, undaunted. /#The stations are all dead-eye posts, virtually no traffic, and for sure none scheduled within the month. As far as any Republic schutta knows, everything's been getting along with their usual level of incompetence.#/

The skeptic snorted, but spared a lecture on "if you can ask 'what can go wrong', something will". Jareb was one of his more capable comrades, hence the (albeit informal) position, but had a tendency to overcompensate. /#Got to wonder,#/ he noted to self/#if Revan is just one person.#/

Jareb laughed. /#Don't tell me _you_ buy all that Wraith nonsense too, Canderous. If you ask me, it's incompetence weeding out our ranks rather than some mystical, all-reaching avenger.#/

/#I didn't ask. And only a di'kut overlooks possib--#/

A never-questioned battle-sense saved Canderous from coughing the rest of his sentence out in blood, as he whirled just in time to defeat a sniper's aim at his skull. The backwash seared his ear, but the sensation never made it to high priority.

Cries of the less wily streamed through the air of one recently annexed Republic Outstation RSI-8. They were the only herald for the half-dozen gray-clad figures that magicked out of stealth field shimmers.

Canderous did not waste time considering how prophetic his doubts had been. The helmet in hand made it to his head, even as he rolled and brought his rifle up in one fluid move. The heat-tracking display in his visor obligingly painted unfriendlies in lurid red...

...only, it didn't. He watched for half a second's bafflement as one green blob felled another, then snarled into his comlink with a curse. /#The enemy have our transponders. Fall back to visual.#/ On an impulse, he added a /#Get 'em, boys!#/

As for any battle worth the mention, "getting them" proved easier said than done. The nature of the operation meant that there was not a huge advantage in numbers: four, perhaps five against each invader. Moreover, the other downside to the haste of the annexation soon made an appearance.

The Republics had booby-trapped the station.

The twists of corridors he had only schematic knowledge of, pressed annoyingly at the back of his mind. The resident Mandalore should be faring better, but enclosed spaces had an effect of equalizing small and large forces. A tactic he was quite fond of... from the employing end.

There was one sure solution to the current scenario: congregate, vac the rest of the station. Decision made, he issued the code for the essentials of such a maneuver even as he broke into a run. Certainty that the enemy had considered the same added just that much zest to his step.

Soon, the electronics in Canderous' headpiece became once again useful, if for the unenviable task of keeping score of his fallen. As yet another console exploded, taking out three men but leaving the sole enemy unscathed, he was forced to up the estimate by several invisible hackers. The coincidences were too well-timed for there to be anything less than sentient intelligence behind them.

Weapon live in hand, he punched the trigger vehemently and had the satisfaction of seeing the survivor crumple.

Full-suited brethren greeted the Ordos perfunctorily as they hit command center. Just as unceremoniously, the newcomers set to filling gaps in the perimeter, after a brief detour to verify that atmospheric controls were functional. There would be a remaining precisely four minute and thirty-seven second wait for the rest to arrive. Stragglers deserved to perish.

Of course, four minutes and thirty-seven seconds were similarly available to the enemy.

Emerging from an abbreviated duck, the residual heat from a plasma grenade scalded through Canderous' armor before regulators could scurry to compensate. He ignored both discomfort and the insanity of his visor display, punching rounds into the haze. A cry rewarded his efforts, but the return fire from behind an unguarded console announced that at least one enemy had stolen ground. On his next check, the fallen was nowhere in sight, though he was reasonably certain as to its location. The Republics -- at least, those worth fighting -- invariably risked much to tend casualties.

His own were sacrificing too many per victory, but if things continued as is, they would still hold ground. The surprising of Revan, though, was contingent on a schedule.

/#Skrag!#/ Jareb shouted by his side. /#There are Jedi with this lot.#/

Canderous would better have appreciated the warning had it come a few minutes earlier -- or hours, if not asking too much. **At least,** he groused to himself as he chucked an emptied clip (a procedure fully automated via muscle memory), **a "where on this farkled station" might have been helpful.**

A tall but distinctly un-Mandalorian-garbed whirlwind joined the fray, and he was forced to concede legitimate excuses for lack of detail. There was no convenient shaft of light to mark, hence it took minutes and yet more lives to ascertain that limbs were being cropped and blaster bolts returned in the tradition of their nemesis. It took more to locate the wielder, not plural, of cylinders that appeared to be all but the "light" part of "lightsabers".

The blade, Canderous concluded in awe, had to exist in the ultraviolet. Tuned as Mandalorian sensor technology was to the infrared of living beings and all but cutting-edge stealth, his visor was of no help.

A moment of misadvised superstition entertained some of the horrors bandied about regarding the Wraith, but the next blast shook him out of stupor quickly enough. If such a creature did in fact exist, so must a mode of defeat, he told himself. He who wallowed in the grimmer assumption might as well slit his own throat.

For one titillating moment, Canderous allowed himself to be mesmerized. He was one of too few Mandalorians who lived to compare Jedi fighting styles: superlative melee opponents, but tending to win _despite_ of their mundane "support".

This group was of a class so different, it blew all he thought he knew out of subspace. There was no awkward scrambling of shooters behind Jedi vanguard. There was no waiting for another to take the risks or issue commands: one saw an opening, one took initiative, the rest adjusted. There were no redundant zones of coverage, no second glances to assure selves that backs were covered by those supposedly on the job.

There was a team as confident of each other as of themselves. There was a core of vibro-bladers who forced the Mandalorians to adopt the same, covered by an unflagging rota of snipers who latched onto every distraction.

The Jedi was all but indistinguishable, thanks to that invisible blade and a speed no flesh-and-blood should have been capable of. Even the Cathar, or the Zabrak who had turned up after Canderous' preemptive command to nuke electronics, were easier to pick out for being sole representatives of their species.

An inexplicable bout of envy assailed the Mandalorian commander. The seamless coordination, the combined innovation, was an ideal many of his trained for their entire lives without ever attaining.

/#Forget the Jedi,#/ Canderous instructed in an instant's inspiration. /#Team up, pick the rest out one by one.#/

The redistribution of firing patterns had a mixed effect. More of the enemy fell, but only after they took their pick of migrating and thus vulnerable Mandalorians. Having expected the Jedi to rush to rescue in the manner of Jedi, Canderous was unpleasantly surprised by a sizzle fifteen meters to his right. A random catch of light on a matt cylinder was the only indicator as the object sailed obediently back to its owner, whose other hand swung uninterrupted in an arc that economically intercepted three shots. One other shot bounced back from the apparently bare and waiting palm.

He tore eyes from the eerie phenomenon, cursing as they located the target of the Jedi's maneuver: the atmospheric controls would never again live up to either constituent of its name. Similar expletives peppered the unneeded report from the squad in charge, who had understandably not expected anything from fifty meters away to wreak such precise havoc. Canderous had not needed additional proof of the Jedi's competence, but acknowledged it anyway. The jury-rigged controls were purely mechanical, not susceptible to blaster fire, and stood a fair chance of surviving grenades. Apparently, they needed to work on "lightsaber-proof".

By the time he looked back, the Jedi had again resumed anonymity.

It was a single loss, but one that drastically shifted the balance. There was a noticeable slack in carnage as the Republics executed a staggered, organized escape. With the race off, Canderous knew their enemy's next move to be a vanishing into the proverbial air vents, the better to pick them off, guerilla style. He was also excruciatingly aware that, regardless of the success of that tactic, the delay would accomplish its goal of rending the web laid out for Revan.

Honor demanded that he see this battle through to the end; there moreover weighed the exhilaration of pitting wits against such capable opponents. Death was an acceptable price.

Practicality, however, interrupted. As close as they were to zero day, they could cede the station and still make their part of the ambush, albeit at much-reduced strength. There was also a matter of information burning in Jared's figurative pocket, information that was to play significant part in the coordination of their randomly allocated attack points.

It was with regret that he commanded retreat.

/#We have the Jedi!#/ Jared's excitement rang loudly enough to make Canderous wince. He scanned the progressively emptying area, easily locating the center of commotion. No other living Republic soldier showed face, a fact which he found exceedingly suspicious. Still, the armored circle closed even though some of its links met their fate upon introduction to their own fire. Apparently, being Jedi did not make one tireless.

Or invulnerable. Under a strange mix of anticipation and disappointment, Canderous barked/#Remember standing orders!#/ Feet could not move him fast enough.

The shift of showering bolts to stun was neither immediate nor synchronous -- vengeance was a hard call to ignore.

No sound marked the instant the Jedi was overcome. Only a cessation of weapons chatter dawned, as the ring of men surveyed their handiwork. Their commander approved to note that they maintained guard both inwards and outwards, but was less pleased with the ratio of attentions.

/#It's just a farkling _girl_!#/ one exclaimed.

After swift assessment, Canderous rounded in on the speaker. /#Tell that to all who fell, when you meet them,#/ he dismissed scornfully. /#Who's after the rest of them?#/

The men shifted on guilty feet, and offered up a few -- too few -- names.

The answering glare targeted Jared. /#Di'kut! They just left her, and you didn't think anything of it?#/

/#Heard her order them to,#/ was the sullen return.

Canderous held the gaze, unblinking if invisibly so behind his helmet, until the other turned. He was slightly mollified by the fact that most of the loiterers had gone off in the interim, presumably to catch up on jobs they should have been doing. Three men remained, two to manhandle the Jedi into restraints, one to maintain aim on the comatose form.

If any of them had been tempted before to underestimate Jedi, the past hours had provided permanent inoculation.

Upon closer scrutiny, Canderous was more inclined to forgive the unbecoming responses of his men. The specimen slumped bonelessly before him -- uncomfortably trussed up, long gashes decorating forehead -- fit the concept of "prey" far more easily than that of "predator". His eyes took in every unforgiving detail, and concluded that under the grime and blood she could have marked eighteen, twenty years at the most. Jet-colored hair, tangled in half-shroud over a strong-jawed face, emphasized an unnatural pallor of skin. It was nigh impossible to believe even though he had seen her in action.

/#Keep her sedated,#/ he reminded. Mandalore had ordered the capture of Jedi, a move Canderous thought eminently wise. He was not about to lose the windfall, no matter how unlikely, through simple, criminal overconfidence.

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

/#I told you sedate, not kill the Jedi!#/ Canderous bellowed.

/#She had some fripping kind of reaction! How was I supposed to know?#/

He willed his fist away from the other man's face, for done was done and it was not encouraged to prepare for a major battle by going ten rounds with one's second-in-command. /#Dump the body in the morgue, then. Mandalore will want autopsy,#/ he gritted out, registering a surprising hollowness of stomach. However subconsciously, he had looked forward to learning the nature of she who had managed to mow down two thirds of his company, and with a meager one dead on her side.

**Two, now.** Canderous bowed his head in respect and a teasing regret.

/#Are you questioning my competence?#/ Jared accused.

/#No, but keep it up and I will!#/ His tone continued the warning. /#The data. It has been transmitted to Mandalore?#/

/#Of. Course.#/ came in, barely civil.

/#Fine. Re'tur--#/

Before he could finish the dismissal, panting-interspersed-pounding announced an arrival. /#Ja, Jared!#/ the interruption managed after a couple seconds. /#Tell me you have not sent...?#/

/#Timing is crucial,#/ the twice-affronted snarled. /#Of course I have se--#/

A loud groan cut him off.

/#Spit it out. What else could possibly have gone wrong?#/

Bereft of armor, the messenger's swallow was visible. /#The, uh, the Jedi wasn't as, ahem, dead as we thought, and, uh...#/

Canderous' eyes squeezed shut. Fortunately, he'd had the accidental foresight to leave his helmet in place. /#And?#/ he intoned with careful false patience.

/#And she kind of, uh, we think she, erm, uploaded some kind of worm to our databanks.#/ The tail of the sentence was rushed almost to incomprehension.

Another commander might have put the man out of misery -- permanently. The senior Ordo was very, very tempted. /#Wonderful,#/ he instead declared. /#And, after jaunting around the Realm Beyond, toying with our computers, and apparently remaining invisible to twenty sets of eyes throughout, she left without saying "bye", of course.#/

/#Er, uhm. She, ah. One of the escape pods. Sir.#/

/#Did she sabotage sensors as well?#/

/#Well, no. But there are, uh, no life-signs.#/

With great deliberation, Canderous turned to add a satisfying dent to the nearest bulkhead. As violent as was his physical reaction, so were his words as finely controlled. /#Now, to encore, Mandalore will be demanding sitrep.#/

The console chose that moment to start blinking. Not to be outdone, the identification module spelled out the name.

/#Uh,#/ said the lad with the unfortunate stammer/#we could, uhm, say, it was the Wraith.#/

The attention he received for the effort was not of the admiring variety.

/#Well, she _could_ be?#/

_end interlude_

* * *

"What!" exploded from Admiral Carth Onasi's mouth. At the moment, he very much _wanted_ to be the cause of a diplomatic incident, maybe two. "You mean the 'great House Baraka' is a bunch of barbarians who condone slavery?"

"Certainly not," Azzam Zahid-Sharif enunciated with haughty calm, though there was no missing the underlying menace. "We practice commerce, as does the rest of the galaxy, and even your Republic recognizes contracts to be binding."

"This 'contract' of yours is a lifetime indenture! It has got to be invalidated by circumstances. What sane being would sign up for that if they had any kind of choice?"

"The original contract was nowhere near that duration, I assure you. It was Aleen's breaking of it, and the consequent harm her charges suffered, that makes me the unhappy executor of such a compounded debt."

"Surely," Bastila cut in before Carth could accuse the man of not appearing the least bit distressed, "there are mitigating factors. Renani was not in her right mind at the time..."

"Being bereft of this 'Force' is not the same as being bereft of judgment," the Ambassador chided, a fact which Carth could unfortunately not argue. "I must confess to being greatly disappointed by this reception. I had received the impression that Jedi are oath-keepers and honor all agreements."

Bastila blushed to high color, but seemed otherwise at a loss for response. Carth turned pleading eyes to the woman who had so far not volunteered a single word in her own defense.

The Exile obliged, though her response was at great affront to his taste. "The Ambassador is right. It, it was my responsibility, my failure..."

"You planned to take off when there's only two months left to term, knowing full well the insane laws they have about that kind of thing? You planned for this girl to be injured so badly in a _dance_ -- and I won't even go into how improbable that sounds -- she's now paraplegic?" Discovering that he had leapt to feet sometime between outrage and incredulousness, Carth decided to put the vantage to good use by levering a round of glares. "Don't tell me any of you believe that a Jedi, especially _this_ General of the Mandalorian Wars, just happened to miss those tiny details?"

"I wasn't much of anything at the time, Carth."

**This is surreal. Plain surreal.** Attention redirected back to Az just in time to catch a disturbing, quickly erased shade in obsidian eyes. "Something else is going on here, clear as Tatooinian day. If you think you can just parade in here and quarter off my friends to some kind of prettified slavery, you've got another thing coming, mister Ambassador or whatever other titles you may have."

A long sigh was his answer. "I had hoped to do this discretely, in a civilized manner," the Ambassador claimed. A hand swept, indicating the privacy of Carth's office and a mere two ominously silent Republic officials. His dark head inclined regally in the latter's direction. "In view of these, ah, expressed feelings, however, I must insist that the charged be placed under security until the matter can be resolved."

The Twi'lek and Rodian conferred in whispers. Carth knew that further theatrics would help none of them at this point, but his hands twitched in temptation.

"It is only just," deluged upon an already-bowed head. "Renani, also known as Aleen, you are hereby..."

* * *

_interlude_

/#Ani, have you seen a communiqué from Mez lately?#/

/#That Duros pal of yours? I dunno, it's prob'ly round here somewhere.#/

/#I've looked everywhere.#/

/#Aw, so she missed one week. Big deal.#/

/#I'm worried, you insensitive schutta.#/

/#She prob'ly found herself a nice bloke to chum up with, it's about time doncha think?#/

/#Eck. Don't you go around trying to manage other people's love-lives.#/

/#Sheesh, woman, don't bite my lekku off. You know I have eyes only--#/

/#Can you be serious for one minute! It's not like Mezerel to forget. Think I should check in with the Commander?#/

/#You wanna tell the _Comman_-- oh, by the moons of Ryloth, don't tell me you're still playing that word game.#/

/#That "word game" is how we kept the Mandal--#/

/#--kept Mandies from picking off outposts, blah, blah, blah. I know already, after twelve years! And I keep on telling you, the Wars have been over for ages.#/

/#That doesn't mean we should just sit around like Hutts and wait for the next one to sock us.#/

/#Sweetie, you know how much I love ya, but you're kitchen staff on a station of hundreds! Let the rest of 'em continue this secret mumbo-jumbo if they got nothing better to do. We--#/

/#I might not be some toity tech or prissy pilot, but I do my part, which is more than I can say for--#/

/#Whoa, whoa! That's not the way I--#/

/#Ptah! I'm not arguing with you over this. Lucky for us it's the Commander and not you who gets to decide if its important.#/

/#I can't believe he's still holding to that messages monitoring thing that went on in the War. I mean, hullo! There's not even any Jedi left to see whatever patterns all these little warnings make. You're just wasting--#/

/#The rest of them high-ups have eyes just like the Jedi, don't they? And Mezerel is my friend. I happen to like making up these puzzles with her. And if there's any chance that something bad's happened, I'm sure not--#/

/#Okay, okay! We'll go. Just hope the Commander doesn't laugh his face off...#/

/#He'd better not. Aayla and Chee got messages from their pals, but they're not right. There's something going on, I just know it...#/

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

To: Admiral Hal Bertold

From: Captain Raimond Bertold

Re: _Ke'sush_, Admiral!

Captain Raimond Bertold reporting for duty, sir!

icon: grin Aw, c'mon dad. If a son can't rib his father about a certain shiny new set of epaulets, who in the Fleet dares? Good to know that the Powers-That-Be are finally getting round to finishing up decorations for the _Mandy_ Wars. icon: salute

How's mom handling the news? I'll betcha she hit the roof, or was she the one who finally wore you down to take the promotion? Being a star pilot herself never stopped her from taking it hard whenever you larked off on missions. She had an especially hard time with those _counter-infiltration ops._ as I recall. Never quite trusted the _intel_, said it was too _vague_ to work, but hey I always told her it can't hurt to _check things out_. Best case you'll come home complaining of being bored.

Oh yeah, before I forget: where's the last place Lorelei was stationed at, again? That itchy foot of Sis' is gonna come back and bite some day. _Moving around, then around some more_... must be those spacer genes. Wonder where she got those from icon: wink.

So, Isa is finally ready to take the leap, I think. It's not like she doesn't already know, but, stang, getting to popping the question is giving me the jeeves! icon: grimace Please, please tell me you didn't get it perfect when you asked mom, but she said "yes" anyway... I'm just asking one of those long stories "for posterity", aren't I? Well Isa always said...

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

1032: A8-T4-J_3_ to Q9-E3-R13

1033: M3-J1-**R**14 to F10-K9-I_6_

1034: Q2-I9-E_4_ to I1-A12-**S**_5_

1035: O3-J4-W12 to **O**10-K**1**-Z_2_

1036: W5-W**9**-K5 to S10-I7-R9

Box.

Embarrass yourself not further, my friend.

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

Whaddaya mean, "box"? You musta been working your head too hard, friend. 1035 sure ain't wiggin' with the list of rules we agreed on. You can only do O3-J4-W12 to **S**11-K**8**-Z_2_ or O3-J4-W12 to **O**7-K**11**-Z_2_, so pick your poison.

Now, behold a master in action!

Option 1:

1037: ...

_end interlude_

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

One tap infused threads of gray with color. A second circled convergences of said color in red. The third dissolved the web into the blank of an inactive screen.

Mandalore frowned at the datapad, though its contents had not morphed since the last viewing. Since it was supposed to be a static display, alteration should warrant the deeper frown, but such hair splitting did not concern the warrior at the moment.

One might have surmised that he be pleased to have been granted solution to that which had stumped a generation of Mandalorian code-breakers/spies -- likely the first and currently only of his kind to hold the honor. As it turned out, he had performed the "suitably impressed" part, but gratitude would have to wait for temporal distance to dilute his annoyance.

Knowing the Exile, she'd have gotten herself into another handful or so "situations" by the time he got back.

A memory bloomed that was completely off-topic, but then so was the question the girl had pulled one otherwise-forgettable day/#How's my accent?#/

He'd had to think about it, but failed anyway to come up with anything definitive, perhaps a slight formality of phrase. Blinkered by Revan's facility with languages, he had thus been further surprised by the claim that Mando'a and Zabraki were the only two within the twin's grasp.

That she professed to hate language studies, yet had expended much effort to master an enemy's, had piqued the Mandalorian.

/#Idiot's Guide to Tactics,#/ the former General had explained, grinningly. /#Covert ops should not be attempted without ability to at least sound, if not look, like one of the natives.#/

There was, as he had dryly pointed out, the small matter that most Mandalorian warriors were not also eunuchs.

/#Never underestimate the power of the Force,#/ she had quoted in fond mockery.

And what made her think all Mandalorians were weak-minded enough to manipulate, he had wanted to know. There might have been a certain degree of asperity in the question, for alto had registered as tenor and he was righteously disturbed.

/#I don't do mind tricks.#/ Deep distaste had stained her protest, but lightened to mischief with the explanation/#I can, however, slow down the air in people's throats.#/

He had snorted, but otherwise let her have the last word. The subsequent disappointment had been proof enough that he had just thwarted a demonstration. It might have been worth the humiliation, though, just because the girl so rarely indulged in levity...

**Useless distractions. Focus, Ordo.**

He tapped again at the datapad, a little more forcefully than necessary, then took a moment to ruminate. That such an improbably scheme was sustainable _and_ had produced useful data was deserving of awe. That it remained at more-than-half strength -- completely voluntarily -- was nothing short of miraculous.

That it had been leaked to not just any Mandalorian, but Mandalore himself, was... disquieting.

It might be that the Exile thought the network impervious, betting on the army of hackers required to beat the chrono of war. It took a fool, though, to discount that any construct can be circumvented, and Mandalore had made a point not to underestimate since the Jedi of the Invisible Sabers.

It might be that the information was somehow booby-trapped. In another history, that option bore much watching.

It might be as simple as a test of allegiance. But then, "simple" had never seemed compatible with the Exile, and to expect one's opponent to conform to one's own logic was one for the halls of infamy.

**Bah. Philosophizing is an excuse for the impotent.**

Gloved fingers chucked the centimeter-thick plane carelessly to top a pile of gear, then folded behind his helmet in a stretch. His mind's eye was the only set that continued tracing the Mandalore's present zigzag to target: a cluster of points off-centroid of the red.

The Exile's loyals were good, herself better, but nothing beat a good old fashion dose of insider information.

A grin bared his teeth, and the Republic spies putting on a show two meters away were no wiser of it than they were of anything else. When this rigmarole finally concluded, he planned to have a hearty laugh over the guises they had pasted on, the latest being the stock mooning couple. It might have been more convincing had they not also come across like bipolars detesting each other's guts.

Apparently, he was deemed insufficient threat to warrant better than two pathetically unseasoned kids. Mandalore was not even much disappointed.

They were doing the job for him all that much faster.

* * *

_Nine days before Zero..._

He awoke debilitated, and knew immediately that it was not from drink.

The equation did not overly burden a pulsing head: Bao-Dur would no sooner imbibe the poison sentients called "alcohol", than contemplate soaking hand-crafted circuitry in etching acid.

Unfortunately, it was also the simplest of all the riddles scheduled for him. For the moment, however, he was content to remain on his back. Eyes charted a duracrete ceiling, three featureless walls, and a small overhang that was the sole divisor between "inside" and "outside".

He did not wonder if the escape was as accessible as it seemed; it was almost assured that a shield took care of that detail. No cell was complete without that particular finishing touch, unless it happened to be of the low-tech dungeon variety.

There had to be some urgency to his situation, yet the tech could only seem to entertain two thoughts in his brain. One: Bez-Enth would deliver a most annoyed (and annoying) "I told you so".

And two: the General would remark, "We really need to work on your idea of 'infiltrate', Bao-Dur."

* * *

"I can't believe you're siding with that Sith-spawn over this!"

Bastila looked pained, but could apparently still summon haughty righteousness at first klaxons. "I am not 'siding with' anybody, and neither should you be, given your current responsibilities, Carth. An Admiral of the Republic and the host of diplomatic proceedings should not allow his... personal inclinations to--"

"My duty is to uphold the ideals of the Republic, not pander to slavers because they look pretty," he snarled, having forgotten for the moment the Republic's take on "servitude" on Taris.

"Punishment for a crime is hardly the same as slavery."

"Reni hasn't even been tried, but you've already assumed her guilty!"

"I do no such thing! If I assume anything, it is no more nor less than what she has freely admitted to!"

Tradition dictated that the third person should insert a protest at being talked _about_ rather than _to_, but this instance merely looked serenely on with eyes that were not altogether present.

A snip of the past drifted before the sole male's eyes: Bastila, hands folded over chest. Renani, voice low and intense. The words themselves were beyond memory-Carth, though the shift of a third set of feet told some tales. Carth's approach had been cue for smiles and bland faces; nevertheless he had caught the tech's mildly admonishing "Claws out, General?"

At present, Bastila's eyes flitted too guiltily for his comfort. The younger Jedi had exhibited such symptoms only once before. He'd learned that she feared a re-emergence of Revan via that confidence.

There was something either brewing, or already drawn and quartered amongst the women. Carth sinkingly concluded that both were quite amenable to the oncoming injustice, even if their reasons were polemic. **Is it too much,** he groused, **to ask for _one_ ally?**

"Where is Bao-Dur, anyway?"

* * *

_**So, Bao,**_ the General would voice. _**You've gotten us inside hundreds of enemy shields. How about getting out of one? Just for kicks.**_ A corner of her lips would then tease upwards in the proclamation, _**Look, they've even put the controls on the same side.**_

"I'd have preferred them on this one," he muttered, "if it's all the same to you."

_**Ah, but then you'd complain it's too easy.**_

Another uncharacteristically flighty circuit completed, the tech finally convinced himself to a more systematic examination of the cell. Fingers ran lightly over all he could reach, eyes imprinted color and texture, and feet took him laboriously from wall to adjacent wall. Methodology was Bao-Dur's forte; his General was the one who flitted from task to task and still landed unerringly where she needed to be.

There was nothing to be found by either set of talents. No bumps, no cracks, no variation in the grainmush shade.

_**I'm not swooning over their choice of interior decorators either.**_

"That," he informed, "was a singularly unhelpful observation."

_**Agreed. Your subconscious is a miserly fellow, my friend.**_

A sigh wended its way up. Years had not weaned the Iridonian from imagining _her_ presence when quiet grew too profound. It was not a habit Bao-Dur was proud of. She did not deserve to be compared, least of all against some ideal of his mind. He had put superlative effort into shedding preconceptions since their reunion, and just as spectacularly failed.

It was all the General's fault, naturally. As hard as it was to divorce reality from fantasy, it was that much harder with the reality she insisted on projecting:

The unwavering intensity of attention. The snippets of sly humor, designed to induce paroxysms hours after digestion. The incurable need to investigate everything. The "mysterious" disarray of his workbench, loudly appointed labels unheeded.

In short, situation normal.

Bao-Dur had forced himself to catalogue the many changes; yet even though subdued, sadder, injured in a way that constricted his throat, the General's essence was true to the ghost that empty evenings had conjured.

_**Good judgment of character is usually considered a strength.**_

He shook his head. It was no strength to succumb to obsession. Pride remained adamant that Bao-Dur maintain his identity apart from those countless satellites _her_ orbit snared.

The business portion of his brain finally kicked up a possible solution, and a slight grin graced the tech's face. A rather unpleasant shock had established that the shield generator was too robust to overload with the charge in his artificial arm. However, as the General loved to emphasize, the cleanest way to beat the enemy was not a frontal assault--

_**--but to convert their cause. Or vice-versa, in this case. Very slick, Bao-Dur. I like it!**_

"Self-praise really is bad form," he reproved absently, already frowning over the intricate sequence of points that flesh-fingers visited on the bands of his artificial left. The task occupied the greater part of the tech's concentration, yet a vestigial sense felt the void where the General should have been, hovering with her inexhaustible curiosity of all things novel.

Under a blow labeled "obvious", he almost fumbled the sequence.

_**Hey, no beating up my student. He's not used to relying on the Force, that's all.**_

"I should have thought of it sooner," the recently Padawan-ed insisted. Abandoning technological efforts, he settled to a cross-legged pose reminiscent of the one his teacher favored. Eyes shut on exhale.

Mical had once described Revan, the blinding nova of her presence. He had observed that the General's registered scarcely brighter than nominally Sensitive, mused that the Masters were thoroughly puzzled by her ability to draw so greatly on the Force.

Bao-Dur had his private theory. Dxun had furnished one proof, where his fledgling senses had nevertheless caught the breeze of his General's presence. No overwhelming achievement, perhaps, but for the fact that she had been on the planet Onderon and he on the moon.

Surely, from less than half a world (he hoped) away, he could not fail to make contact...

* * *

_interlude_

The grease of food spilled through the air, prompting her stomach to roil in futile anticipation. Informing it that insufficiency should be modus operandi by now, Aleen dodged her way between tables, arms aching under yet another loaded tray.

"Mind over matter" was more like "wishful thinking", in this case. Human physiology did not become inured to hunger until well into the starvation phase, and her employers did not find it profitable to maintain their workforce just one ledge above collapsing. They were actually on the generous side by most standards; employees were provided with all that basic subsistence required.

The problem lay in the definition of "subsistence". Apparently, the upkeep of their dainty proportions let the other serving girls get by with equally dainty eating habits. The alien giantess felt misplaced enough without insisting that she used to put away twice as much on good days.

The sensation of being full was long forgotten, at any rate. Here, she was at least out of danger of black-outs, even if extra caution in rising was still necessary.

**Well, you did learn that there's an art to begging,** an inner voice consoled, not very consolingly. **Perhaps if you had put more effort into appearing pathetic, and less to grouching about the filth...**

Her mind shuddered and forcibly ejected the memory of how low she had been prepared to -- had, in fact -- sunk.

**"Merciful" and "compassionate", huh? Imprisonment would have been kinder than--**

"Hey! We've been wa-a-a-itin' fore-e-ever o'er 'ere, gurrrrlie!" a loud voice slurred. "So unless ye're prep'rin' more than grub for us, getcher skinny arr--"

Mindful of obligations, Aleen dumped the tray on the table instead of his head. One beefy hand promptly located the bodily part the man's words had just disparaged. She took some pleasure in hypothesizing how unbecomingly color would show on dark skin if clumsiness were to overtake one of the soups being handed out. It wasn't like he needed any help in that department, but still.

Unfortunately, self-preservation dictated that a proper reaction to the affront be suppressed in favor of a prim recitation of the bill-pad that they all, invariantly, could never be bothered to read. So, she tolerated the grimy paw that squished credits plus gratuitous contact into hers, then had to collect another two orders before depositing the offending chips and scrubbing the afflicted palm off her apron.

**As a Mandalore would say, "K'atini, verd!"**

A General she used to know had never subscribed to the "suck it up" prescription for motivating troops, but that was a lifetime ago, and Aleen could not afford to waste energy on bygones.

Naturally, she did so anyway.

"Omigosh, Aleen!"

The named paused, tipping her head down to examine a mass of black braids reaching somewhere below her chin. Sparkling black eyes and a pair of dimples beamed, and she felt an eyebrow rise -- the expression acquired from a certain persona of that other lifetime.

"Here, let me take that," the other woman declared, adroitly appropriating the wooden tray and balancing it on five fingers. "Lord Azzam Zahid-Sharif himself is here, asking for you specifically. Imagine that! You might, ah, want to clean up a bit before you head over. What could he possibly want, I wonder?"

"I do not know. We have never spoken."

"The young Lord does have quite an eye for the ladies, you know." Her compatriot giggled, winked suggestively, and finished with a sigh. "Ah, to be called to personally serve--"

An older woman bustled to their location, cutting off the end of the sentence. "Samirah has told you?" she asked brusquely, but did not wait for answer. A critical eye lingered over the unflattering crop of hair, migrated to crookedly redone seams, and concluded on mismatched shoes. "Could you not have, just once-- pshht. I suppose there is nothing to be done about it now, not with his Lordship already waiting. It doesn't do to inconvenience a Lord of a House, no matter how tolerant he is. You two would do well to remember that. _You_, especially."

The admonished bowed her head, needing no reminder of her near-daily gaffes.

"Well? Straighten up, for decency's sake! I will not have it said that my girls are slouches and slobs. And it wouldn't kill you to put a more pleasant look on that face. The Divine knows I've got enough customers complaining about you as it is."

Aleen forced herself to correct the stoop that was her subconscious' bid at narrowing the physiological gulf, one she was stuck on the other side of. However, the hail of a hundred eyes (to mind, if not fact) did not do much for improving the sweetness of her expression.

A huff disapproved of her efforts. "I hope you appreciate what an incredible opportunity the Lord might be granting, girl. I don't want to hear of him being disappointed, you hear? Though I can't imagine but one reason he might. For sure I've never seen nobody more like a runyip bumbling around vors-glass, but maybe it's the oddness that catches the eye."

The off-worlder already knew she was no beauty, even if skin which would rather burn than tan, plus length of limb, drew her as exotic amongst petite, dark-complexioned females. The lack of belonging allowed just about anyone free reign to demonstrate "appreciation" of said attributes.

A last cache of pride stiffened her spine and sent adrenaline on a spike.

An unappreciated giggle prompted the older woman to shoo the youngest off. One hand clamped on the remaining's forearm. "Don't you dare give me the ugly eye. Think yourself above us, do you? Even the entertaining girls at least earn their weight! You think it is bad for you here? You haven't seen the real world."

"I have little left but dignity. Life here is not bad," Aleen lied, "and surely preferable to surrendering the last of my principles." Her shoulders had reverted to cowed, a condition she tried to surreptitiously rectify.

"I'd say, so long as you can continue on as a mynock. Just you know that we won't cover for your ineptitude forever. Hmph. Go, go. But you had best think very carefully, girl. Sometimes life is about taking what you can get."

"I, I am trying, Jumanah," weakness whispered.

The other's glower dogged her every step, and Aleen had to wonder if that resolve was doomed to turn out false as well.

_end interlude_

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

"My answer will not change."

"Stubbornness is one of the things I admire about you," said Lord Azzam. "But even a falumpaset must learn to comply for its own good. I cannot do anything about the sentence, Aleen, yet I am trying my best to mitigate it."

"I am no longer that person," she declared, but volume and degree of conviction both emerged inverse to plan. The VIP suite was just opulent enough to remind her of past fineries, and he -- he was the proverbial page out of a best-entombed past.

"You would prefer I call you 'Renani', or 'Exile', perhaps?" Beads tinkled in a shake. "It is no hardship. Still, you cannot deny who else you were, and are."

Cowardice was not in "recommended behavior for Jedi", much less for one so-called Master. It was only remnant self-respect that persuaded her feet to hold ground, however; every other instinct voted for diving behind the closest cover.

**Note to self,** was humor's last bid, **getting placed under house arrest is no way to win an avoid-him game.**

Sculpted features gentled, deep-set eyes grew murky with something akin to pain. As one might approach a fey creature, the Ambassador moved slowly, hands unthreatening by sides.

It was not an unjustified caution. Robbed of the couches and foot-table she had been swift to put between them, it took every gram of will Reni had to not back away. It took many more that she did not have to keep from flinching as he closed in -- and he came very, very close.

"Tell me."

At a vantage to trace every bob of the man's throat, Reni slid discomfited eyes elsewhere, but could find nothing within peripheral vision that was neutral. A finger lifted her chin, removing one more option.

"Look me in the eye," he breathed, "and tell me that you find me utterly repulsive. If you can, I will bow out gracefully, I swear."

She managed to stumble away, minutes tardy as well as dizzy from attempts to deny breath. Arms wrapped about waist, helpless to damp the tremors coursing both body and mind. Eyes shuttered, refusing to acknowledge triumph -- or worse, sympathy -- in his.

His words pursued. "You cannot deny feeling _this_, between us."

"There is nothing 'between us'. Except my gratitude, perhaps," the Exile insisted, and felt the better for it.

He made a soft sound, half-laugh, half-sigh. "I don't understand you, Aleen. I don't understand how you can be the most alive woman I have ever met, and yet refuse to _live_."

**So who is this creature you profess to want?**

But that was an accusation Reni had never been able to make to his face, for there were days when she teetered over how readily self became whatever others required. Those moments of revulsion were to be steered around at parsec's radius.

She settled for a pathetic, "Why are you doing this?"

* * *

Distilled fear pumped through his veins. Eyes flew open upon a gasp, and it was an act of pure will that kept him from crawling to cower in the nearest corner.

He was penned inside a box so small, he could not see the sides.

He was drowning on dry land, lungs having forgotten the purpose of air.

He was screaming so loudly his throat bled, yet no sound emerged.

He was--

Cool surface impacted his back. His body had sought refuge in the one place instinct marked, after all, despite orders and the uselessness of the effort.

It took Bao-Dur ten minutes to regulate his breath. He brought hands to swipe at his face -- whether to rid reality or sweat he knew not -- but stalled, fascinated by their uncontrollable tremble.

The General, imaginary or otherwise, was silent.

A shudder worked its way up the base of his spine. Silence, thick, cloying silence, clogged his cell and flooded the outside. The entire universe had vanished but for the seven-by-seven square meters hazy eyes reported, and he was starting to doubt--

Bao-Dur shook his head, willing the motion to shed both the nausea and the crushing terror like droplets from a gundark. While not a particularly effective strategy, he was eventually able to blank his mind micron by hard-won micron.

In the surreal aftermath, he wondered how it was that only a bit more than a half-year's familiarity could override thirty-odd years of doing without. He wondered if this was how spice-addicts felt upon withdrawal, if this was the General's experience as--

He shook his head again, resolutely driving thoughts in a different direction. Inevitably, they returned to the one impossible fact of his current reality: the Force was no longer there.

He had assumed that the fuzziness was temporary, that the dullness of his senses was some tenacious effect of the condition he had awoken in. He had not considered that he could, for the second time, have become an amputee.

"No," fiercely whispered. "I, I can't, I must not... operate on that assumption. It has to be something about this place..."

Close-mouthed walls glared back.


	12. In An Era's Wake

**In An Era's Wake**

_Day Zero..._

The Jedi Master steepled her fingers, which the Admiral understood to mean that she was becoming impatient. It had taken him all of several months to learn what little cues she doled out, and he still felt that he groped the lesser side of the iceberg.

**Revan was never so exhausting... was she?**

He hated the fact that memory might be starting to wash out. He refused to contemplate that there might come a day when _her_ face became another of the lost -- not the features the woman before him shared, but the ease of her smile, the tuck of her hair -- all the details that made Revan, Revan.

**Just like Morgana...**

"Carth, we both know I never meant to delay as--"

The door-chime barely echoed before the portal carded open. The Admiral blinked, more surprised by the Exile's apparent non-anticipation than by the arrivee herself. Bastila's self-appointed chaperonage was disturbingly reminiscent of when it had been Kaelynn and Carth -- disturbing, for he had not the slightest intention of graduating from one twin to the other.

"It has been five years," the Bastila of not-too-ancient memory had uttered. The lack of lecture, the wistful empathy, the nervous pluck of fingers, had all conspired to fell every one of his carefully prepared retorts. "It is no betrayal to move on, Carth. The heart is not made to hurt forever."

As leery of the platitude as he had been then, he examined the present with caution. Whatever little relaxation Reni permitted around him performed the scripted vanishing act. Still seated, she angled a strictly polite nod.

"I would like to understand," Bastila began without so much as a by-your-leave, "how _you_ could simply decide to incur a debt on the behalf of all Jedi. With a people we have less than no knowledge of, no less!"

"If you like," the Exile acquiesced, "they asked, I answered. If you want details, the word 'yes' was involved."

At the far side of the drama, Carth sat bemused as well as rather guiltily amused. The sister, it seemed, beat Revan at tugging the Padawan's ponytails. The latter turned a shade that would have looked apoplectic on any other.

There was, however, no denying that birth had granted Bastila the ability to do "furious" beautifully.

"Your gall is unimaginable! This farce has gone on long enough. You will have no say in the reformation of the Order, so long as I am around to stop it. And you are not going anywhere, least of all with those creatures you seem to think so wonderful!"

The Exile rose, lending Carth full view of an ill-fitted back while she faced the other Jedi. "Try a little logic, Bastila. You don't want me here. I have duties elsewhere. Why should my departure trouble you?"

Her voice quietened, leaving him an uncomfortable eavesdropper of women who had to be cognizant of his presence. "Or is it not my leaving, but what I might bring back?"

The shade of the younger's face inverted, so drastically that Carth leapt from behind his desk, prepared to catch her collapse. But she only laughed, a terrible, hollow sound that heaped upon his already unscalable mountain of nightmare-fodder.

"That is preposterous." The mezzo almost managed not to wobble.

"My apologies." The alto was a scalpel, sterile, impartially cutting. "Perhaps I should have specified 'who'."

"You, you dare...! I care about Revan more, more than you, who are supposedly her flesh and blood!"

"But it is not Revan you are trying to keep, is it?"

"What are you impl-- you can't..." She faltered, but finished with a firmness Carth knew could not last. "You don't know what you are talking about."

"It is not I who needs to know, Bastila."

Two spots bloomed on ashen cheeks. Composed with full, wine-colored lips, the effect was a cross between ill and what the daughter Carth never had might have accomplished with her nonexistent mother's cosmetics. He moved protectively in, only to have his friend's reaction strike bolts through his feet. There had been defiance in her glare at the Exile, but the flash she treated him to was pure dread. It lasted a mere second, for she fled in the next in moves stripped of all her innate grace.

"What the frell was that about?" The Admiral found himself at a volume suited to outrage, plus one hand clamped around grey-sleeved forearm. His hold had to be bruising, yet neither words nor attitude seemed to perturb those pools of impenetrable black. "I know Bassy is a bit easy to twip for a Jedi, but your attitude isn't exactly helping matters. You do a great job of all that 'Jedi calm' flarg, but it's like you know all these invisible buttons to push! At least Revan... oh, stang it! I don't even want to pretend to understand what it is between you two, so will somebody just tell me what is going on!"

Lean muscles tensed -- all the warning he had before being robbed of grip and balance.

"Ask your friend, Admiral. She might just tell you, once she admits motives to herself." A stiff half-bow preceded an equally awkward apology. "Still, I should not have... We had best continue this conversation later."

A second person walked out on him that day, but Carth hardly noticed. Beyond the surge of adrenaline, he was brave enough to acknowledge the nip of fear.

He just had trouble deciding what, or who; of, or for.

* * *

_Nine days before Zero..._

Six days, nine hours of estranged silence had constructed for Bao-Dur a number of further understandings. One: his ability to stay angry at the General degraded with age and/or total count. The rest was could only be ruminated upon in places more private than thought itself. Even with the ghost-ship ambiance, present accommodations definitely did not qualify.

The number of times he reminded himself of that averaged to one per hour.

The tech groaned over another fumbled maneuver, and drifted to wishing he knew a curse that could do justice to the situation. After all, every other soldier managed to accrue profanities alongside survival kits and other trinkets of service.

The survival kit would have been welcome too.

Two irregularly shaped panels lay on the floor besides his artificial left hand, the latter in palm-up exhibition of electronic guts. From a full-length stretch over unevenly propped elbow and stump, his spine was rapidly developing cricks upon cricks. His eyes had quite forgotten how not to cross, and the beds of his fingernails ached.

The next four minutes involved pushing contacts aside with his littlest finger, not-so-incidentally undoing work of the past hour. As in the last attempt, the one before that, _and_ the one before that, a falling trend for "time spent" was the only consolation.

Somebody had obviously neglected to take note of laws defining "adequate workspace". Furthermore, the designer of Bao-Dur's cybernetics needed to be informed that "workable by the single-handed" should have come with the addendum "tools not included". Nails and teeth might have satisfied Zabrak ancestors centuries removed, but were about as useful to him as the parabolic toothbrush-for-bulkheads.

He was working on drafting that mental letter on the side, whether or not beratings of past selves seemed to have uniformly disappointingly little effect.

When the last cantilever finally edged into the (correct!) slot, Bao-Dur's eyes prickled in anticipatory relief. He shut reality out for one eternity of ecstatic nothingness, with subzero pity for the sensory ghosts thus vanquished.

If she were there, the General would have magicked some dry observation that somehow made horrors sufferable. But she was not -- for which he was thankful even as he was unhappy -- and the tech admitted to being plain out of humor and barely hanging on to determination.

He tried to imagine... but how could it be possible to miss an imaginary voice?

At long last, it was a threatening pressure in his bladder that forced Bao-Dur to his feet. Amongst its other non-charms, the cell boasted a complete dearth of facilities, and he was not eager to find out what desperation might soon dictate.

No veteran of war ever forgot one of the firsts keys to breaking a captive. Humiliation.

Ominously, there had been no visits, no patrols, no hint of activity beyond his own. It was as if whomever had gone to pains to set the lure had immediately stuffed their catch in a to-be coffin and forgotten to memo.

Give or take another decade, Bao-Dur decided, then he might feel only rue instead of the deserved self-disgust.

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

_interlude_

He stood precisely one meter behind the seat, at parade rest so that hands were secure from tapping and feet from advancing without due notice to brain.

Head bowed such that only back four horns were in line-of-sight, Bez-Enth fast-paced a tempo upon the outdated interface. In interims, the tips rose marginally, allowing her to better take in some new ream of machine code flashing down the screen.

His friend had steadfastly refused his help since the day before, a sentence Bao-Dur considered unduly harsh. His passion had always been hardware, but the past year of adventuring had resurrected old skills swiftly enough. The General's Elite was not the Elite for being overly reliant on any one link in the chain; he was no slouch in the software department, even if the finer points of knowledge had moldered in the years of her Exile. She was not the only one who had sought penance in various degrees of isolation.

Yet, the tech's frown of the day was not over that old wound.

Bez-Enth would not have been pleased by the nature of how herself occupied his thoughts, but then neither was Bao-Dur pleased by her behavior of late. She considered troubleshooting the outpost's network to be a waste of her time, could not understand his inability to wait two days for the next transport -- or better still two weeks for the new installation -- and still eccentrically refused to let him handle the tinkering.

There were days where Bao-Dur found the "(wo)men are incomprehensible" opt-out to be sorely tempting.

There were also days where he found the motivation for pacifism to be exceedingly hard to come by, and that was before she had specified the distance -- physical and temporal -- for him to keep, lest he "bungle up" her concentration with his "infernal impatience".

/#Any progress?#/ he asked, having timed the first syllable to sound two hours (to the second) after the last query.

The circle of horns jerked to horizontal, and something unsavory assaulted his ears. Honey-brown eyes slitted as the woman turned, finalizing into gimlets of ill humor. /#When I said 'a couple hours', I didn't mean it's fine for you to demand a "sitrep" every two hours! You're retired anyway, or has that slipped your notice?#/

Bez-Enth had never been military, the tech reminded himself. When that failed, he made a note to ask the General about super-strength Jedi calming techniques, not subject to letting up should she favor "let me know when you find one, Bao-Dur".

/#This is important,#/ he asserted for the n-th time. /#The General and I have not touched base for over a week.#/

For some reason, he did not think that Bez-Enth would appreciate a recitation of the exact number of hours since he had told his General they had nothing to discuss.

She swiveled to face him; the moue did not indicate a state of pacification. /#Really? So Miss Does-No-Wrong messed up again, did she?#/

/#That is not of your concern, Bez-Enth.#/

/#Of course not.#/ A sneer entered her voice. /#Stars forbid that any of the ratty underwear shows to anyone but your precious "Elite".#/

Bao-Dur had not yet found a pleasant way of dealing with his friend's resentment, and so opted to again circumvent. /#You said you have other things to do. Why will you not let me work on this?#/

/#Because these are _my_ systems you'll be scrambling up, dolt!#/

The frustration he had only just managed to whittle down cranked up to acute. /#You know perfectly well that I can code routine debugs blindfolded, which is all you can claim to have been doing for the past day! Don't you make it out as if I am some Academy grad you are saddled with watching!#/

Narrowed eyes widened into round. For one whole second there was only shock, then glassiness shattered into overbrimming emotion. Before her fore-horns could quite purple, the other Zabrak jerked around sharply enough that hydraulics in her seat squealed.

Equally as appalled by his own volatility of temper as by the extremity of Bez-Enth's reaction, Bao-Dur could not seem to muster more than a view of tremblingly rigid shoulders. Contrition stuck indigestibly mid-throat.

/#I, I guess I should have expected that,#/ she was first to speak. /#Our... relationship has never meant as much to you as, as...#/

He found a voice. /#Bez--#/

/#Don't. Just. Don't. Say. Anything.#/

He could not find enough kindness to lie an apology. Days of tension strung between his shoulder-blades, plus the barely-contained turmoil of recent history made it impossible to overlook the fact that she was in the wrong.

/#I have been on it, whether you believe or not,#/ Bez-Enth continued after half a minute of the silence she had demanded. She sounded small, tired, and without that one thread of defiance that would have assuaged Bao-Dur's conscience. /#I was going to tell it is nearly done, but...#/

He was not prepared for her sudden rise, nor the slam of a keyboard carelessly released. Still not to face, the Zabrak bit out a vehement/#Here, since you so obviously you don't need me for anything. I'll be in my quarters, when you decide to be civil again.#/

A decent interval later, Bao-Dur assumed the position she had just vacated. However, he felt naught of victory, and much of urgency's unforgiving claws.

_end interlude_

* * *

For one shivering eternity, she woke into the past: the sledgehammer of guilt, the shipful of dead, of dying... perversely all the more horrible for the fact that she no longer shared their suffering.

Relief came in the guise of a loud argument, the principals of which had definitely not made it to the original script.

"--don't care if he's Freedon Nadd reincarnated! He said so himself that Reni was fine when he arrived, and she sure ain't looking like she's up for a duel or two right now!"

"If it had been my intention to harm her, I would hardly have arranged to have no alibi, much less confessed to it, would I?"

"I never accused you of being too smart."

"If this is the courtesy the Republic extends potential allies--"

"If this is your idea of 'ally'--"

"We apologize, Ambassador Az. _Padawan_ Rand is too close to the situation to think rationally--"

"Yeah? Well _Padawan_ Shan is too busy fluttering her eyes and looking pretty to think at all!"

"Your ill-mannered belligerence is most telling of how little 'Master' Renani requires--"

"Be silent! The General will be able to tell us herself soon enough. If you don't suck up all the air with your incessant squabbling, that is."

Tipsily, Reni might have laughed had she energy to spare. Hindsight should have known that the vigilance she had given slip once would not suffer a repeat performance; sure enough, the aether carried news of unmistakable twined presences.

The aether...

"I can feel it, Doz-Halk," she listened to her own whispery babble. "I thought it was gone again, but it's not. It is still here, it is here and I can feel it."

"General?"

She was glad her eyes were shut, for it served better to hide the embarrassing excesses of relief.

"Thank the--"

"You really do like--"

"Did that schutta--"

"You worried--"

"Reni, are you--"

The count stopped at five other distinct voices beyond the two, an unpleasant reminder of the fact that if one went about fainting in populated space, one had better be prepared to face the subsequent interrogation(s).

Since not seeing events apparently failed to stop them from happening, the Exile turned to persuading her eyes to take up function. As the blobs coalesced, they were pleased to confirm what her ears had determined.

"Didn't blow up Telos," she kidded lamely.

Seven varicolored pairs of eyes blinked in uniform incomprehension.

She tried to sit, only to have one shoulder pushed firmly back into recline. "What happened?" she settled for asking.

"That was my question," Atton informed, and followed by assassinating the Ambassador with a look.

"We were speaking," the latter explained with insultingly little attention paid the former. "You collapsed, don't you remember?"

Reni did indeed not, but the bump on the back of her head had no such problems.

"Well? Can't you at least check her out or something?" Mira demanded.

Bastila colored slightly, but moved to oblige.

"Thank you, but I am fine." Shrugging off the restraining hand, Reni managed a position more supportive of the claim.

"Oh, you sure are. And I am a dancing Hutt," the pilot moonlighted as jester. The other protests turned out to be the less diplomatic, an odd reversal of roles.

None need have bothered. A realization opportuned at that same moment, after which the Exile might as well have slipped back to unconscious for all that she heard of any matter.

* * *

/#Are you trying to be obvious, or is it just a side benefit of incompetence?#/

The stubbled face succeeded in a scowl, but only after its eyes had been two seconds too long in one second darting. Whatever dubious intel the action might have garnered, it for sure earned the man the full force of his sovereign's contempt.

/#It wasn't easy, with you showing up in full battle gear,#/ he whined. The trait would have warranted execution had their population permitted culling.

/#You want 'easy', I have a blaster called that right here.#/

Civilian-garbed limbs jerked. Having assumed from the straight off that the di'kut had successfully broadcasted his identity to every being with sensory organs -- half-tranqued spies inclusive -- Mandalore did not waste the energy to be disgusted. Recognizing the man to have been the lad of the unfortunate stammer, though, he entertained himself by furthering the fellow's jitters with a snort. The Exile should be thrilled to hear of one more for her collection of Force un-coincidences.

/#I am to take you to--#/

/#By all means, give me one more reason to shoot you before the Republic dogs behind us get around to it.#/

The only semi-intelligent thing the other had accomplished to date was to not turn around, but that might have had something to do with the fact that he was out cold before the end of the sentence.

Mandalore flexed a powered fist, then toed the prone body with irreverence. "Scrag-end civvies," he complained to a forming bubble of spaceport-ers. Said bubble expanded as he looted the "body", surreptitiously palming an object or two amidst weaponry and, needless to add, credits. Unless he was horribly mistaken, their alarm-garnished curiosity should prove distraction enough for his tails to de-fang themselves over.

**Shameful,** he rated as he strode off, and drew up notes for improved drills.

* * *

Urgency was on his back, still.

A grunt forced its way through teeth as the Iridonian tech demanded ten more degrees of an already-strained left arm. Mechanical fingers, sluggish and rather crispy from a journey through eight centimeters of shock-field, neared an inconveniently placed panel by one precious amount. His eyes could not help but return to the circular-ish fizzle where his artificial arm sunk past the containment field, as futile as scrutiny was at this point. The tuning the cell's shield frequency would either hold, or it would fail. In the latter case, the hand that had made it to freedom would obey gravity above any amount of entreaty. Both futures were up to forces beyond Bao-Dur's control.

The knowledge did not stop his breath from bating every time the field, mere centimeters from his nose, burped from some minor imbalance.

Two centimeters up, to locate something that nebulously registered as a ridge. One centimeter left, along it. A correction, half a centimeter up. Half hand-span, nearer where a standard touch-pad would be located. A breathed prayer. And then...

... the sparkles crossing his eyes snapped, sputtered once, and winked out.

Bao-Dur sank to his haunches, along the wall he had spent the last hour hugging. Eyes screwed shut against the return of feeling, he allowed his body three seconds' complaint. Then he pushed to stand, to make it across to the right side of enclosure even though he had to blink back the residues of pain.

His jaw ached from a syren's clamp, that had to be deliberately relaxed.

Swift exploration located a console, as deserted as the rest of the immediate premises. Practiced hands hotwired a power supply, and the gratifying hum and generic prompt went a ways in making up for excruciating hours. The tech worked quickly, knowing from experience that the dregs of adrenaline were ephemeral.

There was still, after all, the mission to fulfill.

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

_interlude_

"If it pleases you thus / a message, leave us," a tinny version of the General's alto chanted.

Her penchant for limericks formed pinpricks into the anger that fogged Bao-Dur's mind. He had dared to tease the General about it once, to which she had maintained that her affliction was mild compared to Revan's. The present was such that he wasn't quite up to a smile, but it was a close call.

"You could have gotten this far earlier, Bez-Enth," he complained, though the accused was not around to hear. Of all the times to indulge in petty, nonsensical behavior-- but debating why the juja cake was crumbled (or if there were fingerprints already on it) could only be an academic exercise.

This was no time for academic exercises.

"If it pleases..."

Upon the sixth hearing, Bao-Dur was past less than amused.

"Transport endpoint not connected," a featureless voice took over. With some difficulty, the tech repressed a growl to inform it of exactly how helpful that was. **Think**, instructed self. **You're getting too focused on one issue. Time to broaden the prospects.**

Minutes later, the tech sat very, very straight, fingers at speed of thought.

The tech did not stake a verbal "of course!", but only because he was preoccupied. He had pestered Bez-Enth about the possibility: those little failures, those spatterings of misbehavior -- it had not taken long for "sabotage" to start screaming "attention!". But the resident whiz had scoffed that life wasn't always galaxy-shaking missions and omnipresent enemies, that "normal" did actually exist outside the hyperbole of his General's existence.

There was only Bao-Dur to blame for not better heeding his own suspicions. Czerka was hardly the most gracious of losers -- anything Telos had to be fair game, even minor outposts. The only real question was whether the compasses pointed in a direction more sinister than acts of revenge.

Whatever the motives, whomever the progenitor, the tech admitted that the bug was itself ingenious. Instead of attacking the more heavily guarded system functions, it burrowed into the user interface and translated instructions to garbage. What made it so difficult to pin down was that it produced consistently intelligent garbage.

Still, it was rather unbelievable that Bez-Enth had not--

It is all about asking the right questions, Bao-Dur had once bragged to a very young General.

And it was. And as he hit upon the right question, it came suddenly to be that his fellow Iridonian's antics dropped right out of his worry quota.

_end interlude_

* * *

/#Still overly fond of your own reflection, eh, Jareb? Can't be any other reason to surround yourself with idiots.#/

Being in the less than battle armor allowed the younger Ordo to lever a glare on top of arms over chest. Unfortunately, the deliverer's lack of stature plus the recipient's cantankerous nature equaled failure to impress.

/#Your stunt almost gave us away to those spies on _your_ tail!#/

/#How lucky for the lot of you, then, that their incompetence surpasses yours.#/

/#There was a time where you would have been the first to have disposed of their bodies.#/

/#In case you haven't noticed, that War was over ten years past. And that this is no time to start quibbles.#/

Under the partial cover of elbows, the other's fists clenched. /#You talk like a pacifistic Republic dog.#/

/#What, not even "Kath hound"?#/

Muscles in a square jaw twitched; distance had apparently not bred, in the cousin, any fondness for humor. /#How you came to be styled--#/

/#Tsk. Before you start insulting my lineage -- which you might want to remember you share -- do stop and think a little about the current distribution of loyalties.#/

A swallow punctuated a pause. /#I apologize,#/ Jareb managed with the universal enthusiasm of younglings regarding "good for you". /#I am perhaps a little, ah, overeager.#/

/#Gets you nowhere with the ladies,#/ Canderous critiqued cheerfully. **Will get you killed with this one,** he could have continued, except that there was no point in making it too easy.

Another swallow, this time of something obviously distasteful. /#Might I ask, "Mandalore", when you plan to end this charade?#/

/#Hmm? Oh, _that_, of course. You said this room is secure?#/ The continuation was delivered in lowered voice/#It is critical that this remains completely need-to-know...#/

To his credit, Jareb waited a full five minutes. /#And?#/

/#What?#/

/#The plan!#/

/#Oh, that. Well, maybe it won't hurt... Nope. You'll get it along with the rest of them.#/

* * *

"Whaddaya think, Mir? Is it the dashing momma's boy looks or dazzlingly boring personality that Dissy has going for him?"

Mira scowled, ostensibly at her hand. "Keep it up, pal, and I'll say Bao-Dur has better chances with his 'General' than you."

"Pshaw, bot-boy? He's, he's, well he's an alien, for one!"

"Oh joy. Temper tantrums, crèche-school posturing, _and_ closet xenophobia. Remind me who placed the order for you, again?"

"Aw, shucks, did I offend your delicate sensibilities?" She was not so immersed in the cards as to miss the lascivious, larger-than-life smirk. "You've been 'round the good ol' block, sister. Enough to know that there's no lighting the fire, so to speak, unless certain, ahem, parts fit."

"'Been around' lots of Zabrak, have you?" the huntress growled. One, seven, and nine in hand, with a precipitous seventeen on the table. Across the table, Atton sported an even ten. What pedigree of justice did the universe deal in?

"Why, you jealous?"

"You wish. And just so you know, there's more ways to life and, ah, love, than you can possibly dream up of in that sewer you call a head."

Propped upon one elbow, the rogue sprawled a little more comfortably and peeked from behind thickets of dark lashes. "So-o-o-o sure, are you. Wanna find out?"

Her hand wavered indecisively over face-down deck, until Mira made herself come to a decision. Idly, her mind flickered over all the forms of shock her opponent might exhibit at a "yes".

Just to check the effect out, of course.

"You planning to finish before I grow all wrinkly?"

One haughty second elapsed before she angled the new card to viewing position. She placed it on the table, but with a coy hand above the face.

"Oh c'mon, Mir. You know there's no beating me."

A predatory grin was his answer. That, and a triumphant, "Paza'ak!"

* * *

/#Come now, Canderous. We have been through much together, and it is overconfidence to think you can pull this off on your own,#/ Jareb came as close to whining as his nature ever allowed.

The grub looked and smelled surprisingly appetizing, considering the temporary status of the base. Having subsided on Republic fare for close to a year -- the product of galaxy-traipsing, _not_ galaxy-class chefs -- the addressed paid more attention to selecting a full plate than his own throwaway/#Pull what off?#/

/#You know stang well. It does seem a little more insidious than we Mandalore usually go for, but of course direct strikes have never had much success against _her_.#/

/#Her?#/ Changing his mind about the pie, Canderous backtracked several steps to make a snatch. The other soldiers made way respectfully enough. Jareb grew a frown.

/#Yes, her! The Exiled General, the one you spent eleven farkled months gaining the trust of!#/

/#What about her?#/ Finally reaching a table, he set the pleasingly heavy tray down. The other Ordo likewise sat, sans comestibles but with plenty of mouth.

/#This is frelling tedious. When are you going to quit pissing around and get to business?#/

Mandalore was making serious headway through lunch. He thought to point that out, but decided that the breath would be about as judiciously spent as on a preaching Jedi. /#And what do you think that "business" might be?#/

**It must be a test** all but wrote itself over the opposite face. Canderous managed to enjoy several minutes of peace and good food before being dished a reply.

/#Since you haven't done the sensible thing and eliminated her,#/ the cousin posited with caution/#I can only assume she's a lead to fleshier prey.#/

He mumbled a noncommittal something over a mouthful of heavily spiced grain.

/#The most obvious candidate would be Republic pansies, or... or Revan,#/ was the thoughtful follow-up. /#Or perhaps there are secrets yet to be extracted. War tactics.#/

Excitement occupied Jareb for the next minutes, a condition Canderous found much to his convenience. It also provided some entertainment while he did justice to a hearty slab of meat tempered by preserved root vegetables. No significant rival for the five-plus-one team of jesters he had been observing of late, perhaps, but the fare more than made up for it.

He repeated the last point to himself.

By drips, the zeal on the younger's face oozed away, leaving a skeleton of unease more sour than the pickle. /#The plan is tempting,#/ he shifted to reluctant/#but I'm afraid the timing is all off. The clans need you, Mandalore. Now is no time for an extended absence.#/

The titled raised his head long enough for a smirk. /#You didn't even know about this#/ -- eyes indicated the helmet proudly occupying an entire sitting (not that there were any takers on crowding the Ordo party) -- /#until I crashed your miserable excuse for a covert base.#/

Valiantly ignoring the jab, Jareb persisted. /#Of course I'd heard rumors of a new Mandalore, but what were the chances, given that Revan had taken the Helm? Those other rumors, that you had traveled with him must be true after all.#/

A one-shoulder shrug accompanied /#Not much of a man, our Revan. But otherwise as fine a commander as reputed.#/

Confusion compressed Jareb's lips, but pride -- always ridiculously easy to provoke -- sealed them against query. /#If everything goes right, clan Ordo will lead the new generation of Mandalore! Forget the charade with the Wraith. Even if what they say about her lost powers aren't true, you have worked yourself into her confidence.#/

/#Know that for a fact, do you?#/

/#The Jedi have always been too trusting. Besides, there's the droids. One might think that she's set them to keep an eye on you, but I've seen the way you order them around, and how they take it like old news. I'll take the bet that you can get them to hack into some pretty high-level stuff too. Plus, she's dismantled the better half of her company for your escort.#/

Canderous merely grunted, but Jareb had never needed too many pats to look mightily pleased with his own cleverness.

/#I say we make her pay right now for what she did to our people,#/ he declared/#then move on to greater things. We are over fifty strong here, and I know you have a substantial number at your call. Nothing compared to our strength before the War, perhaps, but more than ready to reclaim our birthright. There will be no Jedi rescue this time. Wraith, Republic... we will dine on the fruits of their folly!#/

* * *

_**You can't ask us to let -- much less help! -- you do that.**_

"Sorry. I'd ask myself, but, you know..."

_**Your plan is insane, General.**_

"Already bioprinted 'yeah' on that one," the Exile replied. But no, she did not speak, must not speak -- memory censored before escape of the first syllable.

_**--until you learn to keep that Light-forsaken trap shut! Sith-spawned demons, the both of--**_

No! Not that memory.

Ten breaths counted before they resumed normal. She widened her eyes to striae of non-existent color.

_**Being Jedi transcends phobias,**_ pontificated a voice. It resonated with a clip suspiciously like Bastila's.

"Why did it have to be this one?" Reni plead, carefully without voice.

The walls did not echo, yet pressed so close that they might as well have.

_**I don't think they accounted for your definition of "cargo" when they said "container".**_

"'No live goods'," she quoted. "What's a heartbeat or half per minute?"

She had been so heedful of internalizing the words. Silence -- at all costs, silence -- but the walls amplified each thought to a scream, and as mind would not still, neither would body.

_**Ya ungrateful li'l scrag! I'll teach ya to...**_ ... the bellow of fury.

Dark. It was always dark.

_**Ri, Ri, won't get free...**_ ... the tease of youth.

And small. She wasn't that large a being -- or was she? -- it was too small.

_**Ya can fedding well stay 'n there till...**_ ... the immobility of hatred.

And silent. Poets wrote of the roar of silence; but she knew nothing of poetry -- how could a mere gutter-snipe?

_**If ya ain't gone and git us ridden with them demons, we'd be...**_ ... the axe of resentment.

And worst of it all was the Nothing.

_**Ri da stupid, Ri da slow, Ri kin always take da blow...**_ the cycling of violence.

Dark. Always dark...

Time passed, infinitely long, blinkingly short. Then, above the drowning weight of ghosts, a physicality to motion. It jarred her back onto a thinning thread of sanity.

_**The trance, General. You must. Life support won't last much longer.**_

She forced herself to count out seconds, then minutes, past the subsidence of activity. Then, and only then, did the keen of tears emerge.

She did not know whether it was from adult or child.

* * *

The lights were malfunctioning.

He groaned, an uncharacteristically verbose response to the thought of having to get up and fix. After all, none of the other crew could be bothered to soil their not-so-dainty hands, and the General... well, let's just say that the General fared significantly better on theoretical problems. It was only a matter of time before Bao-Dur resigned himself to living up to the "tech" part of his designation.

There was, however, one small impediment. His brain was currently stuffed full of psychotic glitterflies, and his limbs had been swapped around when he wasn't looking.

Had somebody already noted that in the void there was supposed to be sight?

Something -- scratch that, make it "many things" -- was not right.

The bed was too flat, too cold, too wide. Too hard, even by the Ebon Hawk's standard of quality back-breakers. Bao-Dur groped along it and found that it became a journey of minutes. At the pinnacle of the psychedelic experience, he contracted an involuntary yell when head intersected...

... a force-field?

He could not claim that his head was any clearer, but the picture suddenly was.

* * *

It was the cold that woke her. Not the leeching emptiness of kilometers above ground, but planetary night insinuating past durasteel barrel and cap. For a long moment her mind remained in another place, a place with absence deeper than chill could rival. Then it snapped back like a tired rubber band.

Frantic kicks were her bid for freedom. The latch fell open, she clawed her way out, fell to the ground heedless of dirt, scratches, even audience. Fortunately, there was none of the latter, though plenty of the first two.

For another eternity, she thought only to let senses and sensation tremble through her frame.

The Force responded sluggishly to her panicked mind, and her body was tardier still. There was only a slight pang of guilt to go with the thought that the Pair would have tied her down themselves, had they been privy to certain details of the "plan".

None of it mattered at the moment, though some opinions almost certainly would at later date.

"Renani," insisted she to self. "My, my name is Renani. I'm Jed-- I am Jedi."

_**--worthless chit 'tis what ya be.**_

"Please," she begged. There was no deciding as to of what or whom.

_**Never bringin' back nothin', eatin' us outta house an' home--**_

"Not... that's not real, not important, not now." And, when that failed to motivate: "K'atini! People are in danger while you wallow, hut'uun."

Reni tried to summon the comfort of a face, and was granted Nothing in answer.

The greater terror did manage to uncurl her fetal position, and eventually promote a more upright posture. Fingers clutched numbly at the fasteners of her robe, but the thick cloth and its thicker layer of spirits both proved betrayingly ineffective barriers. The Force was there still, but she might have had better luck slaking thirst on a mist.

It was in fact a blurry dawn, and her throat scorchingly dry.

The physical discomfort was the Exile's lifeline. Slowly, she walked, and slowly, the dying fog made way for the ungainly blocks of post-disaster architecture.

A small, clear vial oscillated to a stop inside the abandoned cargo container.


	13. Reverie

**Reverie**

_Day Zero..._

"Come, come, Carth. Let's not pretend we don't both know what they say: Revan might smash you a new face with ol' right-hand Malak, but it's her left that snaps your neck from behind, every time."

The hand-rake through regulations-skirting forelock was designed to steer attention from a gut-sigh. It was however doomed by the fact that it worked better on those of female persuasion; more likely it was the sotto-voce grumbling that had any distraction value.

The incoming query clinched it. "Hmm? Do speak up, old boy. Ears are the first to go, you know."

"I said, I'll see you senile before I see you uninformed, Vladik. So, no, I can't find it to believe that you're here pumping _me_ for the latest in sludge."

Another early rank-riser (Wars were undeniably good for careers) the other Human Admiral looked the holo of comfort in dress uniform and a seat half again too short. The attire was excused by a just-concluded meeting. The furniture had no excuse. Carth didn't spend too much time in apology of the latter, though. The blond who had blazed a fighter-pilot reputation _despite_ his height had had thirty or so years to get used to the way of things.

Between tugging an over-starched collar and shifting the too-high cut of pants, Carth took a moment to wonder if wrinkle-resistant cloth was a trade secret of military families.

Well, to be fair, there was no questioning Vladik's trials by fire. Moreover, every street-beggar managed to look spiffier than Carth, according to the verbal humor of one Mission Vao. What stung more had been her Padawan cohort's ill-concealed amusement.

Okay, so he was a little... sensitive about the issue, these days.

One thick finger lifted to waggle him away from the preoccupied drift of his thoughts. "Three months' escorting the lady, and you haven't got one teensy morsel to share with an old buddy? Whatever happened to all that Onasi charm?"

The scowl Carth treated him had plenty of the opposite. "Could you get to the point? Assuming there is one." He drummed his digits, still reeling from the odd Renani-Bastila confrontation. As Luck liked to have it, his "old buddy" had barged in just in time to save him from having to decide which suicide to chase down.

Okay, so he might have been entertaining the third alternative, and sock what anybody might have to say about cowardice. That tidbit had a vanishing need-to-know list which Vladik was definitely not on.

"I don't have time to play games," he stressed.

"Still the same straight-lane Onasi." The admonished steepled fingers around a belly that his sigh hollowed. "Surely you have learned by now that it is all about games, old boy. Learn to put it on with the epaulets, or you'll spend the next few decades wearing misery."

"You may walk and talk like a player, but you'll always be a bit mild for a Stanislav, Wookiee."

Eyes darkened to emerald. "High praise," was the genuine comeback. Then, silk over steel, "But not warranted when it comes to... certain affairs. You know this, Onasi." Hardest struck was the softly repeated, "You know."

Carth blew out a breath; it had failed to buoy his spirits anyway. "Then let's save the moves for the enemy, Wingman."

Pairs green and brown each took measure of the other. Both found readings close enough to true.

Vladik cleared his throat, and spaced out the retrieval of an anonymous oblong datapad. From the way he handled it, Carth all but expected him to pronounce it live and ticking. He found it impossible to look away, though the other made no move to relinquish the object. He was more generous with words, even if he looked mightily uncomfortable to be speaking them. "There has been talk that you spent a year in arms with a Mandalorian, when you were with Revan. Surely you understand tha--"

"I have always been loyal to the Republic," Carth returned with heat, even as he thought **Can't say the Republic has always been loyal to me.** "_Kaelynn_ herself could not have persuaded me otherwise. So, no, I don't understand how you could even think I'd betray the Republic on account of some Mandalorian scrag--"

"I may have-- no, no, I was wrong to do so. I just couldn't risk it, old boy. Not when it comes to--" The sentence hung on a swallow.

"You couldn't risk it?" Carth repeated, but with the spice of incredulity. "We've known each other for coming on twenty years, I have all the clearance you do, and you couldn't see any way around sitting in that damned chair and playing word games about something I have no damn clue about?"

Thick blond eyebrows grew thundery. "Friendly fire vapes just as good as hostile, Carth. Better, since it comes from the back. You and I and every blimey survivor of the fedding Wars knows that, so don't act like we haven't all scrimped on those almighty principles more often than we've stuck by them!"

"I've lost just as much as you to the Wars, and after," Carth mustered with more vitriol than he'd thought was in his blood -- after Kaelynn's leaving, that is. "I really don't give a Krish's word what the other Admirals think is fashionable, you don't see _me_ going 'round accusing old comrades of--"

In the breadth of one blink, all two-point-two meters of one Vladik Stanislav towered. Hands slammed with enough force to make the repliwood desk dance. "There happens to be one hell of a difference between us, Onasi," he spat with venom, "and he's on deck ten shooting sims off the more gullible half of my crew!"

Something inside Carth froze. Any other topic, and he would have gotten by with some inane line about how temper came under the fine-print for the Stanislav inheritance. But, the subject being what it was, all he could do was to strain his fists and decide that "can't get any worse" was a particularly meaningless statement.

"Um," he started to muddle through, but caught sight of something that sent thought slamming like insects on a windshield. It was the sight of hands, not his, trembling.

They were tucked away quickly enough after Vladik forked them through his hair. "I, ah, don't know what came over me."

"I'm, erm, me neither." Some fidgeting later, Carth offered, "Jedi tempers must be catching."

A weak laugh excused the weak joke and implicit apology. By mutual agreement, both men began independent studies of repliwood patterning.

"So, you said Dustil, he is here? Haven't heard a thing about it."

The other Admiral's near-smile telecommed gratitude for lines thrown. Politely ignoring the depths begging in Carth's last statement, he managed a chuckle. "Oh, that. That was meant to be a secret. You will remember to act surprised, won't you? Kid's been working his tail off trying to 'earn his place'. Especially after that hush-hush the both of you have been shut tighter than a Hutt's purse over. Been teaching my blooded officers a thing or two, too."

Carth grinned, discomfiture washed away by tidal pride. "What can I say? Takes after his old man."

Vladik didn't look convinced, but only grunted. Then, almost too softly, "I envy you your-- I envy you."

In imitated courtesy, Carth faked non-notice of the hitch. _**I envy you your wife**_ could only come across all degrees of wrong, so he settled for, "High praises, huh? Glad to hear it."

"Don't you let on," Vladik admonished. "Won't do to have cadets with big heads walking around. Too bloody big targets."

"I believe you. Got to, it's 'Wookiee' for more than the size of your coveralls."

"Of course, of course. That'd be my prowess in, ahem, various areas."

"Watch it, Stanislav. A few more centis of ego, and they'll need a hacksaw to fit you into a cockpit."

"You're just jealous because chicks dig 'tall _and_ peerless pilot'."

"Of course they do," muttered Carth.

* * *

_Eight days before Zero..._

"You!" A trick of light on brown irises was an illustration of "flashed with fury". "I might have known all bad credits must eventually turn up. He came here to get away from _you_, or didn't you consider that scenario, 'General'?"

Her hands were shivering, so Reni shoved them into voluminous red sleeves, tried to make the pose look intimidating rather than pathetic. The greater feat, however, was resisting the Kreia-voice that lectured: _**the most expedient route is such an easy glide, fingers, mind to mind...**_

"Well?" The voice reminded sharply that she was on a time not wholly her own. "Did you wake me up just to show me what kind of spice-happy scrag-end the great 'General' has become? You should know, I really don't care. So just git, go back to playing galactic hero or tragic figure or whatever. Leave us small folk with our small destinies be, for we sure don't want you in it."

"I know he is not here, Bez-Enth. Where is he?"

"Which part of 'away from you' didn't you understand?"

The tremors increased, but for a different reason that the Exile tried to defeat by clenching fingers hard about forearms. "He is in danger. Where. Is. He."

"The only thing he's in danger of is you!" The last word flew fresh from the Zabrak woman's mouth just as she shoved the old-tech door closed at the intruder's face.

It slammed open again, so quickly as to overbalance the owner of the small residence. Reduced to expletives for only one incredulous moment, she raised a retributory hand.

Whether a slap or a punch was intended remained Bez-Enth's secret to keep. Her eyes did not manage to track the arm that barred the strike, but widened post-hoc from shock. A surreal distance away, Reni was aware that her ulna pressed close to the cartridge of the other's larynx, her short nails sinking into the flesh of the other's forearm. The trembling had only worsened, but the sole thing uncertain about her grip was its intent.

The captive's throat moved in a restricted swallow, but did not attempt a scream. "Showing colors, eh?" rasped out. "Almost a pity, who's not here to see."

_**Listen. All those petty belligerent surface thoughts... listen deeper... are those not currents of a very different character? Guilt, perhaps? Worry? Secrets denied?**_

Much later, upon review, Reni would wonder if her internal dilemma had not been as internal as hoped, or less definitely resisted, or both. Right then, she only knew on an almost visceral level that the woman's sense spiked from masked fear to bare one.

"You're insane." Bez-Enth was whispering for more reasons than the pressure upon her throat. "Get away from me!"

"I _ask_ one last time," Reni emphasized. "Where is he?"

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

_interlude_

It was a suitably grateful Renani who sank to cross-legged in a corner of the empty workroom. It was fairly cramped thanks to a disproportionate workbench, and smelled strongly of grease and other unknown chemicals -- but it was dark, empty, and _there_. Who would have thought it so difficult to find room on a ship the size of a frigate?

Hindsight argued that she should have been prepared for the fact: space was a huge commodity in, well, space.

Unfortunately, the locale proved to be on the side of too quiet, given the nature of her reading material. The impressively dry, superlatively tedious datapad was so arresting, she found herself drifting into a reverie every two sentences or three.

It was during the eleventh such rill-out that _he_ appeared.

Reni hated her pale complexion that revealed every blush, however slight. Jedi did not startle. Nor did they daydream, dither, and otherwise make attoparsec progress through the task at hand. She had to wonder, however, if _he_ was some first-year Padawan who had not yet figured out that, "communal sharing" policy or no, possession was a nearly impossible-to-suppress trait. As an example, this was **her** quiet space...

... except that memory struck her hard enough to remember that it wasn't. Plus, once they had stared gapishly at each other long enough, it occurred to her to look. The plasteel kit in hand and the one leg frozen over the workbench implied that--

"Oh, is this, this is your spot? I was just, it was--"

--it was just _him_, unfamiliarly familiar--

--and it was too early in "never" to start broadcasting that she was two lightyears off her rocket.

"Sorry, I was just leaving--"

"No! Uh, no, it's not. That is, the room's not in use. That is, I just use it sometimes--"

Reni matched the stain on the workbench to the shape of his clobbered-together kit.

"--erm, quite, uh, often," he amended, following her eyes. "You can sit there, you won't bother me. That is, if you want to, you could."

"Oh. Okay. Uhm, thanks."

The horned head nodded somewhat curtly, then turned to unpack. With relief that was not entirely inwards, Reni curled back into the corner. For the next ten minutes, she periodically re-routed eyes back to datapad. In contrast, the male alien never once strayed from laying out an array of complicated objects. Each gizmo apparently had to be aligned precisely to an angle; thus was she beginning to understand the pattern of grooves on the worktop.

He evidently owned the greater share of self-possession between them. The alternative, that he found her entirely bizarre and safest ignored at decameter's length, was too depressing.

They were told and told that the Force allowed no coincidences, yet encountering one was always, without fail, unnerving. Perhaps when she had accrued a few millennia's worth of experience...

"What are you doing?"

It significantly relieved her to hear the other confess to something so mortal as curiosity.

"Studying," Reni replied, and felt instantly bad for the reflexive grimace. The boy (man?) had hardly asked for his lair to be invaded, much less by a grump.

"Studying? For... school?"

She was staring despite self-admonishments about staring, and so caught the finely delineated eyebrow that shot up, the doubt that wrinkled a few delicately wrought lines. "I wish." -- and she truly did, for intellectual chores had never been hardship. "More like 'ground vehicles' and 'mobility'."

"Ah."

The ensuing silence prompted both sets of eyes to migrate to more neutral ground. Reni's unfortunate choice was a set of long fingers clasping a multitool. A smear of black interrupted the fourth knuckle to the base of the thumb. Beneath the confidence of familiarity, the hand twitched with eagerness to be rid of her awkward presence.

The Human would have been more than amenable to that, except she had nowhere to go.

"I, uh, well, it's because of the War, you see. It's looks so, well, easy in historical texts, everybody just magically knowing what to do. Maybe it would've been different if there were Jedi Masters here, but there's only us, and no matter what they might have told you I really don't think we have a clue of how to fight a real battle. Well, Revan perhaps does or at least thinks she does, but-- ah, yes, well, anyway. I'm just, uh, trying to, well, just trying."

"Ah."

Lips pressed against further logorrhea, Reni worked on her first exercise in strategic retreat.

"So, uh, how come you're--"

"--not with the rest of the Jedi?" A nervous laugh defied her control. "Not a very popular person right now, I'm afraid. There was something the others thought we should do, something I just couldn't-- it's complicated. But anyway I should go find them now. Won't do to be the first Jedi to get lost on a Republic ship--"

She made it halfway past knees to feet, but was halted while stooping to secure the detested datapad.

"Actually, I was only going to ask, why ground vehicles?"

_end interlude_

* * *

The hiss of air past metal was for once nothing so dire as escaping atmosphere, only a particular droid's rendition of a sigh.

HK-47 often found it disconcerting that its behavioral circuits came hardwired with a full set of Humanoid-equivalent expressions. For one who purported an elitist's disdain for lifeforms of the squishier variety, such mannerisms were, quite frankly, schizoid. Unfortunately, the fact seemed to have escaped its creator's otherwise exemplary (for a meatbag) logic circuits. Fortunately, the gap had similarly escaped every other being HK-47 had been fated to encounter in its artificial life.

The sigh came about because the Hunter-Killer unit found itself addressing yet another meatbag quirk. The twist was that it originated from one of the least likely of its current Master's meatbags. Still, the integrated probability was a significant twenty-three percent, so HK-47 was not overly concerned about the tuning of its extrapolation subroutines.

"Concession: You have proven an acceptably bloodthirsty meatbag in the past, if disappointingly less so at present. As a (superior) droid, however, I am most certainly not susceptible to the chemical imbalances meatbags romanticize as 'friendship' and 'love'. Statement: To aid your pitifully organic circuits, be notified that such grounds will unfailingly fail to move me."

"Sithspit," came the un-heartbroken reply. "You've been vocal enough about how underutilized your 'talents' have been since reactivation. Think of this as an opportunity to exercise those rusting threat-assessment packages."

"Truth: The new Master possesses a despicable tendency to treat my more interesting abilities as, hmph, extraneous. It is for sure beyond your capabilities to remember how degrading it is to be regarded as no more than a walking blaster. Reduced to cataloguing the patheticisms of dying meatbags, while my circuits yearn for meatier missions! Oh, for a nice gory political silencing, or a deliciously covert strategic remov--"

"Mockery: Oh, spare me the poignant remembrances, droid. Now, to aid _your_ ailing electrical circuits: that was an order, not a proposition."

Mechanical fingers twitched on the blaster that never left their grip, but the Master's latest instructions had triggered some frustratingly non-circumventable catches in its logic. As was too often the case, HK-47 had to settle for a verbal shot. "Statement: My loyalty subroutines specifically prohibit actions that would jeopardize the current Master."

"Right. Then you'll be thrilled to know that I'm not out to get your Master, not for any part of the War. In fact, it's very much in my plans to see her alive and functional, which means getting her over this battered-wife flarg and away from those lube-spined Jedi. You may consider that the reason for this little... exercise."

The meatbag doled out all the correct indicators of casualness, both during the speech and after. However, the claims he managed _not_ to make were almost as interesting an observation as his changes, from previous behavioral history, around the Master.

Naturally, HK-47 had some favorite protocols that prevented premature (or prevented, full stop) divulging of information. It selected the response, "Indignant protest: The anthropomorphism is offensive. My facilities are not subject to--"

"--meatbag foibles, bla bla. Now if you're done with the coy act, I want that report!"

For an eternity of seven-hundred-and-thirty-nine processor cycles, HK-47 parsed possible outcomes of various degrees of compliance, and weighted them by fitness in accordance to its list of prioritized goals. Personal penchant for exposition was unmistakably not part of said accounted factors -- a droid was, after all, far superior to organics in impartiality. Along with a number of other aspects.

"Compliance: Oh, very well. The previous Master has also often expressed concerns about the current Master's blind spots. In fact, my speculation subroutines assign a high probability to the postulate that Malachor V was primarily intended as a lesson for, as well as leverage against, the current Master."

"Elaboration: Quite obviously, the most significant of the Master's weaknesses is an over-trained sense of responsibility. The previous Master found it quite easy to convince the current Master that just about anything is her fault. Her sense of obligation can then be used to 'persuade' her to tasks initially objected to. Observation: The Padawan meatbag has also shown some facility in this regard, as proven by the latest series of events."

"Elaboration: In addition, the Master..."

* * *

_interlude_

"--call 'pom-hopper'." At the blank, he filled in, "Naboo swamp animal. Walks on surface leaves."

The girl nodded, then raised an eyebrow in artless imitation of his favorite expression.

"It's the undercarriage, see," he explained. "Well, actually you can't, not from this holo, but I could show you someday. All air-dropped vehicles have a weight limit, and the genius who designed this used it all up for the top plating. So it's a great place to stash troops when there's danger of air raids, but I wouldn't want to be in one of those when it tries to pass anything beyond one meter of water."

She tilted her head.

"It's the op-clearance." She did not look any more enlightened, so he continued, "Distance from ground to undercarriage, at full design load."

Comprehension starburst in space-black eyes. "So that's why it's blacklisted for high-H planets." The grin, which revealed a dimple on the left, was entirely unexpected in spontaneity and genuineness. "'Pom-hopper', huh? I'd hate to find out what you wizards call old Bones that brought us here. Or actually, think I'll love it."

"It rattled?"

"With a capital 'R'."

Still mirthful, the young Jedi's head tipped, restricting vision to that held in one hand while the other propped a sharp-ish chin. Bao-Dur shook his own, the better to keep a maniac's-smile strictly mental. It was not often that he found himself with a willing audience -- the other techs got a bit miffed when lectured to by a junior, while the rest of the galaxy hired techs precisely so that they could wash their hands of all "shop talk".

The Jedi listened with such singularity of purpose, assimilated at such a rate, that he had spent a first few minutes tripping over words for dread of saying something wrong on a subject he knew backwards, sideways, and even right-sight-up. Granted, she was getting more of an education on mechanics instead of the homeworked logistics, but she had perked up considerably from the sotto voce grumbling that had earlier prompted his help.

She tucked away the swath of hair that had fallen out of a perfunctory ponytail, and once again lifted gimlet eyes his way. Then, with almost-frightening offhandedness, "Kind of easy to plant explosives on the undercarriage with all that clearance, isn't it? Or cut through it."

"The Mandalorians tried that, once." Teeth protested more than memory. "I keep on saying we should do a blush-net coating" -- and, for her benefit -- "Lights the whole thing up a while after tampering, pretty much impossible to detect or get rid of. But my supervisor didn't think much of the idea."

"Why not?"

"Too much work," he gave the party line. "before and after."

"Too much _work_?"

Because of that emphasis, words escaped him before thought. "Most Republic fops still think the Mandalorians are no great threat. Over half of my people died, a quarter more were enslaved, and they still think that their 'superior ideals' or more likely sheer numbers will crush whatever 'little uprisings' they could possibly meet!"

Silence triumphed in the aftermath. Bao-Dur was not accustomed to ranting, and certainly not to people he had known for anything less than a decade, maybe two. He turned away in wait of the usual sorrys and poor-yous, more than a little annoyed with himself.

"I felt, I felt them," the girl whispered. "I felt Iridonia."

The horned head snapped back, but the alien one was down in contemplation of scars on unexpectedly callused hands. Of course, he should have expected -- Jedi life was hardly reputed to be all coming-out parties and annual balls -- but there was something... vulnerable about her, unlike the other one. The rather similar other one, although Bao-Dur was not excused from the alien tendency to find that "they all look the same".

What took him most aback? The dearth of platitudes? The revelation of his birthplace? Or, could it be, the impression that her confession was also an unprecedented first?

/#Bao-Dur!#/ a third voice precluded answer. The two sentients jumped in their seats; the datapad fell clatteringly to ground. /#You'll never believe what hap--#/

/#Hi, Bez-Enth,#/ he offered up when the pause had sprouted way past silly to a degree of painful. Letting eyes slide to periphery, he found his bench-mate frozen in a half-twist, half-stare. /#Uh, this is A-- Renani. Jedi Renani.#/ The latter's utter lack of movement was, to choose the mildest adjective, disconcerting, and he hoped address would persuade her out of it. "Bez-Enth, my friend."

/#Oh, ha, very funny.#/ The other Zabrak leaned one hip to doorjamb and stuck a hand over the other. /#Give it up, chumani. It might have been more believable if she didn't look halfway into pissing her pants, but I don't think so.#/

The only piece of luck Bao-Dur had been granted since the start of this War-alias-Nightmare was that the Jedi did not seem to understand Zabraki... or was an adept at not hearing things. "Bez-Enth," he spoke in deliberate Basic, unaccountably nervous. It was only Bez-Enth, after all. "I was just helping the _Jedi_ out with some of her, erm, studies."

"Oh for the sake of--"

"Hello," the third found her voice, but ducked her head to accomplish it. "Just, just Reni, please. G--, uhm, it's ni-- uh, hi."

"Right. Reni. Okay, Bez-Enth here. And boyo did remember to mention somewhere that he's Bao-Dur this time, didn't he?"

The maligned scowled. The Human did not laugh, but the tilt of her almond-shaped eyes grew curly as she glanced his way. It was quickly dropped in favor of patterning out scuffles with her boots.

Bez-Enth stared in a clearly interrogatory manner. A helpless shrug was the only answer Bao-Dur had for her.

"Igotta-- I have to go. It was, you've been a great help, Bao-Dur. I'll, ah, we might seeeachotheraround." She could not finish the sentence quickly enough; had, in fact, started to feet by the time of his name.

"Wa--" he belatedly called out, but finished the syllable in an emptier room: "--ait." From sitting, he bent to scoop up a flat, palm-sized gadget, the display of which had been flicked off though probably not by intent. "Guess she really didn't care for 'On Ground Mobilizations and Vehicular Strategies'," he noted to self.

"Should I be getting worried?" sailed over his head. The tone was arch.

Bao-Dur had one hand free. It fit the space between eyes and fore-horns quite nicely.

_end interlude_

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

"I don't know, okay!"

It took Bez-Enth two seconds to process that her mouth was the one culpable. The shame in capitulation was much faster visiting. "Probably took off just so he won't have to see your face," she recouped.

It was not so many decades ago that Bez-Enth had summed the "Jedi" up as pathetically shy, a harmless albeit stranger-than-most one of Bao-Dur's innumerable pet projects. It had not taken many months at all for the shell-hutt to burst out of _that_ skin.

The Exile looked so ridiculously young, still. Of course, all Humans of intermediate age looked childlike to Zabrak, what with their smooth unmarked features. The Iridonian even knew of some more radical members of her society who found Human visages distressingly flat to look upon. Those had not taken well to being forced out of segregation, per courtesy of the Mandalorian d'javl.

Unfortunately, Bez-Enth had enough years that age had segued from being an advantage to being a most insidious enemy. Perversely, the other woman seemed to just have popped out of a wormhole with one end stuck in the past. Still plain and drab, in Bez-Enth's opinion, but hers was not the one that counted. More than the favoritism from Time, though, she resented the Exile for that wormhole -- its other maw wide open, and well on its way to sucking back all she thought she had secured.

The Jedi did not gloat; Bez-Enth would have preferred such proof of fallibility. Instead, she was so completely still for so many slowly trickling seconds, the Zabrak began to wonder if she was one of those jack-heads, rilled out to cyber-land.

A voice like chipping ice startled her. "I suggest that we move this inside. You might not enjoy your neighbors hearing what you've been up to."

Bez-Enth would have sucked in an indignant breath, if not currently in an... inconvenient position. It did not stop her from grinding out, "Like anybody'll believe one word from your crazed m--"

"--ou--oof," she finished, but from the inside of her home, and from having been rudely "sat" on the nearest chair.

The Exile remained standing. If she had at all any delusions of it ending in anything but further humiliation (hers), the Zabrak would have thrown more than visual daggers. But no matter how bedraggled, timorous, or generally harmless the woman appeared, the poison of experience had taught better.

"Those messages to Atton were not Bao-Dur's writing. They were yours."

"What!" the response was askance. "You have no pr-- I don't even know who this farkled 'Atton' is!"

An eyebrow raised, the gesture so like the absent's that her fists tightened into her palms. "You are a hacker, Bez-Enth. You'd sooner refuse breathing than information," the other informed. Eyes bored with the edge of raw obsidian. "You may know him well enough to trick Atton, but I know him too."

Bez-Enth refused to believe that the scoundrel had actually shown the messages to the woman he was panting after, delusions that himself lead the pack or no. She knew men like him, knew them very well, knew he would have done nothing if not palm the chance to sideline a rival.

She pursed her lips, and let the sneer convey what she thought of the claim.

"I am trying to believe that you are guilty of nothing but criminal stupidity," the Jedi intoned. "I am trying very hard."

Bez-Enth had seen "the General" in action before, all one-point-eight-something meters of implacable, more silent than the death she dealt. Any sliver of morbid awe the Zabrak might have harbored had been ploughed down by the sight of those -- one in particular -- by her side. Bao-Dur, _her_ gentle, mild-mannered Bao-Dur, might as well have run her through the heart with that vibroblade he'd wielded as nonchalantly as one of his gadgets.

That full weight of personality was crushing, robbing more breath than the arm that had physically pinned her before. Fear ran rivulets down her spine, but hate held her firm.

"Fix it," passed like judgment. "They got to him because of your antics, Bez-Enth. Now fix it! Tell me exactly what you did."

It was as close as she had ever heard the unnaturally quiet woman come to a yell. Something triumphant yet bitter inscribed circles in her left-stomach. "I have nothing at all to tell you, you paranoid freak! Who are these imaginary people you imagine 'got to him'? Mandalorians? Sith? Or is it some mysterious extra-galactic threat this time?"

* * *

His General was not one for songs of praise. In fact, it was the offhand, unpremeditated statements of confidence that made her regard so precious. Perhaps moreso than her attempt to grant him the unwanted out, her blatant admiration of one Carth Onasi had shaken the firmaments of Bao-Dur's world.

Late, unsolicited gossip had educated Bao-Dur on what (more precisely, whom) Humans considered attractive. Add to that the General's professed admiration, and it was not inconceivable that Admiral Onasi might never need fear disappointment should he decide to come a-calling.

Whatever reason such a man might cite for such behavior -- a man who, by all accounts (not least of all his own) had spent four years in wait.

The possibility was... concerning. His General may not have requisitioned a keeper, but the tech liked to think that she considered him a friend. Such were privileged to the occasional worry.

It had always been a quota he fulfilled with ease.

He recalled: _**So far, his actions have been honorable.**_

The Bao-Dur of then had not wanted to dwell on what came after "so far", nor "intentions" versus "actions". The one of now was not any more enamored of the task.

He jumped to his feet, forcing thoughts to more productive labor. A discharge of the shield, perhaps, though it hearkened back to one of the first things he had tried. It might just be enough to threaten the more mundane barrier, if very focused...

* * *

"He was running from Czerka mercs earlier this year."

"Of course he was. It's what you were always asking of him, isn't it? Play hero, and so what if he loses an arm or a leg or a life doing it."

For hardly the first time, Reni wished that sentients would not fall so dramatically into either will-fawn-at-feet or will-stab-at-first-chance regarding herself. When had good-old-fashioned apathy become a commodity? "Bao-Dur was not in the War for me, Bez-Enth."

"No, you just bossed him around like he was."

"Could you reserve whatever it is you have against me for later? We are short of one male Iridonian, in case you haven't noticed. About yae high plus horns, glowy arm. A bit hard to miss."

"He would have been safe if he'd never met you, or if you'd had the smallest decency and stayed _gone_! He'd never have had these idiot notions of being able to save a world, heck the galaxy. He'd have stayed--"

She wondered if the Iridonian realized how many contradictory paths her responses railed on. Instead of dousing them with the intended reason, however, Reni heard her mouth hijack itself: "If you truly think that, then I must wonder how well you really know him. Do you know he feels guilty for being restless before the War razed Iridonia? Do you know what he vowed after Malachor V? Do you know his temper, his pride in controlling it, his dedication to his sense of right?"

* * *

_interlude_

"They gave me a squad."

Startled, Bao-Dur only just managed to not weld a permanent short-circuit that would have had his Remote bopping off walls -- that, or having to roll instead of float around. Something sharp prepared in his throat even as he flicked the thumb-control to off and swiveled about-face on his seat.

Wide, jet-dark eyes stared at him, more prominent than he remembered on an angular, pale face. Admonishment evaporated from short-term memory.

"I've been told it's a universal truth, that a commander in possession of a front-line unit must _not_ be in want of a tech. Or at least in this corner of the galaxy."

He did not -- quite -- gape. While his mind spun for a plausible context, though, the Human girl was already ahead and pressing the rest of many dense words onto his ears.

"I disagree. I have not forgotten anything you said. This cannot be a War of brute force, not if we hope to win. The Mandalore may seem to fight like bull katarn, but that is only the aspect they wish us to see. The longer we sit inside our safe little illusions, the more civilian worlds they will raze, the more atrocities they will commit, simply because they do not see our military as paying them sufficient attention."

Bao-Dur frowned, not because he did not agree, but because he still could see no way around the apathy, the arrogance he had battled more often than the enemy, all these past months.

"You've seen much more of the War than I have, I don't need to tell you it only gets uglier out there. I can't promise you anything, only that you will have all possible chances to make a difference."

He could not place why so perfect a speech should appear to him like a mis-sized hydrospanner. Then it struck: her speech _had_ been perfect... perfectly rehearsed!

Bao-Dur had never been quite up-to-date with social graces, but for once instinctively knew that the building chuckle equated to consequences he would regret. Meanwhile, having run out of script, the Jedi had started rambling something about reduced pay and shared quarters -- none of them advertising points, in his private opinion. Deciding that it was unkind to let her obvious discomfort continue, he informed her of the foregone conclusion: "Alright."

"--demotion of sorts. Of course, you're not military, but-- waitaminute, what, you just said...?"

"I'm in."

"B-b-but, are you sure? I mean, you will be the only tech in a fighting unit. I hope but don't think that will change soon. Revan might consider it, but she is a genius with machines already and doesn't need the help."

"So, it will be harder for you to misplace me."

"But it's, uh, well it is a bit noisier than the ideal workplace. Getting shot at might be a bit distracting too. Then there's all that getting injured and dying and you should know I'm almost completely useless as a Healer, no matter what you might've heard of Jedi. I'm thinking maybe I could order people not to get hurt, but that might not go down too well."

"Won't have to complain of boredom, then."

"But you have to know it was almost a joke! A joke that they agreed to let us on the front-lines, that is. They say it's because... well actually it doesn't really matter. I think people just got tired of the 'Jedi attitude', and think failing will teach us a lesson. I don't get it. How can that be any kind of good with morale as low as-- er, well, it's, uh, it feels... anyway, you--"

"The Mandalorians destroyed my world. They destroyed my _people_. I saw them gut our elders because the old don't make good slaves, because it terrified us to see respected figures strung up like farmkill. I saw them maim children and force families against each other, because it broke us to see our leaders beg."

It had been a routine day, War, no War. Bao-Dur had picked up the usual list of maintenance orders, spoke the few requisite words to supervisors, sunk his attention as deep into work as it would go. He did not lament experiences, as many were wont to over caf and meal breaks. How could they possibly compare with those who had not survived, much less those currently living such tales? And yet, here he was, revealing some sample of the pain and injustice and _hate_ to those old/young eyes. That face, surely a stranger's, but which seemed to reflect everything he felt.

Unanticipatedly liberating.

"If there is any chance at all of taking the fight to those monsters, instead of sitting here pampering to Republic egos, nothing will stop me from taking it."

A deep while later, she smiled. It was not a happy expression, but a pact as grave as ritual, yet it completely transformed her face. In that moment, the tech could not comprehend how he had ever rated those features to be on the awkward side of ordinary.

"I have a feeling I'll be thanking you for many years to come, Bao-Dur of Iridonia."

He almost injected something suitably bloodthirsty about Mandalorians and comeuppance, but again some instinct realized it would be the last thing to impress. Instead he returned a grin, and managed to keep it on the right side of feral. "Oh, I think I've got a few limbs to spare."

Dark eyes widened, in pleasant surprise, Bao-Dur rather thought. His revised guess was that the Jedi had not been listening at all, but moonlighting on some other dimension (a familiar accusation). He ended up wondering if she was ill or otherwise in pain. Hip-to-toe with them for the past year or no, the Iridonian Zabrak didn't know all that much about Humans. Unless the occasional racist snipe on the structural integrity of hornless crania counted.

"Not on my forsaken watch!" The volume dispelled some if not all questions. "So if that's really the way you feel, we have one major--"

"Whoa! A joke, a joke," he defended self, though not with overt apology. "A bad one, perhaps, but sometimes, they're all we've got."

She had left her mouth open on the last word, and quite a bit of color had accumulated in her cheeks before she shut it like an afterthought. The physiological response, Bao-Dur had observed in Human colleagues when drunk and rowdy, but none to such degree. He found it fascinating briefly before he found it worrying, bizarre as the whole interlude had so far been.

He scraped a nail over a back-horn, trying to think of what to say to...

_end interlude_

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

...walls that had all the texture and appeal of grainmush, with none of the attendant softness.

An enduring confusion later, Bao-Dur inscribed an angry palm-print on one of them. Now was no time to be drifting into thoughts ten years had lectured to suppress. More disturbingly, how had his legs managed to wander? His quarrel was still with the shield across the room.

Licking cracked lips did little to sooth them, had not for some time. The unsteadiness of his remaining hand was yet another cause for grimness.

_**How many, hmm? How many out of how many days can a Zabrak make do, you think?**_

* * *

"You think you know it all, do you, 'Master Jedi'?" The epithet was no honorific. "You dump him for ten blithering years, and that makes you an expert on all things Bao-Dur? Were you here when they told him they had to remove his arm, General? Were you here when he wouldn't let a soul to within two meters? Were you here to pick up all the pieces he thinks he's lost?"

"No, I wasn't. I missed ten years of being his friend, because I thought it more important to be his protector." The Exile whispered the next sentence: "And even that, I had already failed."

"Damn right you did." The satisfaction of finally routing their "conversation" her way let Bez-Enth produce a grim smile, or at least a baring of teeth. "Luckily, not all of us take off whenever it's convenient for _them_. So go ahead, try whatever Jedi tricks you think you can on me. I've been protecting him since we were kids, and I'll damn well keep on protecting him. Especially from _you_."

Something dangerous and quite frankly terrifying shrouded the Exile's face, and for a moment her eyes unfocused as if at the beckon of some unheard voice. "If I did, no effort of yours could stop me," she claimed.

Bez-Enth could only believe. The racing of her heart induced nausea, but she glared gamely back.

A fraught hour later -- or perhaps it was a minute -- the Exile was first to break. It was more virtue than vice that she did, but the merit was short-lived. "Hey, keep your bloody claws off that!" Bez-Enth demanded as her home console was activated without so much as by-your-leave.

An array of computer spikes proceeded to sully her worktop. Mobilizing frozen limbs, she moved to shove the intruder bodily away.

A hand, unnatural in strength and speed, pre-empted and sent her crashing backwards into a fortunately placed couch. She scrabbled for the comm., only to barely evade a similarly headed bolt of electricity. That impossibility singed cloth from her arm and scored into her skin. The pain came too short a while later.

She screamed. No-one came running; thanks to Telos' unpredictable weather, the living units were well insulated indeed.

The Exile turned back to work, having already forgotten her host.

"He hated you, you know," Bez-Enth snarled, digging fingers into her arm in hopes of distracting from the agony. "Know the one thing you are? You are the only person he's ever admitted to hating. Out loud."

The figure stilled under robes that hung like sheets off her frame -- and that was all. Two seconds later, the violation of privacy continued.

"You may think you have him back now, but the part of him that hates you will never go away, 'General'. I know it, you know it, and even _he_ knows it: you knew, didn't you? And left anyway. You knew you could have saved his arm."


	14. Dues Perceived

**Dues Perceived**

_Day Zero..._

"--mind games it is, eh?"

"Statement: Affirmative. My former Master was particularly fond of giving opponents the -- quote -- 'go stab yourself'. As a matter of fact, a detail meatbags usually miss about my-- Interjection: This phenomenon is within meatbag parameters, since my vast array of talents must prove taxing for your limited--"

"How about conciseness, or is that just too far beyond your programming, rust-jaw?"

"Statement: The patina upon my outer casing was carefully designed for maximal--"

"Fine, fine, cut the gab."

"Continuation: I am of course programmed with a vast selection of psychoanalysis and manipulative protocols, tuned for a variety of targets that prove resilient to, or inconveniently situated for, ahem, conventional methods. My only handicap, it pains me to admit, is that such tactics are best applied by fellow meatbags, preferably ones with some emotional significance to the target. As such, my role has sadly been limited to more of an... advisory nature."

"Conclusion: all byte, no action. Swell."

"Indignant protest--"

"And an epic one it will be, I'm sure. But unless your 'methods' all involve talking the subject to death, just give me the damn intel. I want the number done on your current Master. Minus all that poignant commentary."

A metallic sigh. "Statement: The current Master was a favorite subject of the previous Master's, because effects designed upon her had the unique opportunity to be 'broadcast' to a wider audience. There are moreover a number of beautifully cultivated neuroses already in place, begging to be exploited. Ahhh, to just pre-process the possibilities is a task worthy of my programming."

"Elaboration: My favorite example is the Master's extreme aversion to contact, physical and more interestingly mental. It sends a current through my circuits to think that it is but a side-effect of-- Ex-cla-ma-tion: Permission to blast the faulty logic out of that bug-infested, spying dumbot of a--"

"Di'kutla! Verre d'n n--"

The last word abruptly truncated, as if the recording and/or transmission had been cut. A similar silence dropped in on the plushly appointed office of one Admiral Carth Onasi, Nebulon Frigate _Engarde_, Republic Fleet.

"Says it all, old boy. And rather well, you don't think?"

Carth pinched the bridge of his nose in the age-old non-remedy for one of the Human conditions.

"You can't tell me that after hearing all that--"

"--I know, I know, but it just..." -- he spelunkered for words, and waving a hand helped -- "it's just not like him."

Green eyes speculated discomfiting things. "I don't understand why you would protect this or any Mandy scrag-end."

"I am not protecting C-- the fripping Mandalorian!" He sighed for the too-many-eth time in too few hours. "It does the Republic no good to spin-tail down some joyride while the real action vapes out elsewhere."

To his annoyance, Vladik's conviction was less than absolute. "Carth, Carth, nobody is interested in casting aspersions; ahem, not those who count. But do scope the situation out objectively, please. Here we have, by all accounts, this 'Mandalore' who's running around mobilizing 'his' troops. I don't need to remind you, this is the fighting force that nearly had us crawling on ours knees? And now he's great pals with the strategic genius some say is second only to Revan. It's a strange day indeed that I'm the one saying this to _you_, but you have got to be spice-happy if you're not at all suspicious."

"Of course I'm suspicious. But the something going on here is not the obvious, I just know it. Look, I've seen better than any of you that there's not an ethical bone under all that plate, but the one thing that Mandalorian's never compromised is his 'honor'. He also has this... thing about protecting Revan. Whatever else he's up to, I don't think he's capable of giving her twin the big push." He had to mutter, "Not deliberately."

"The Exile is not Revan, old boy."

Carth took a deep breath, which he promptly lost. "Why do people keep on thinking they have to tell me that! You don't think I know that well enough? Kaelynn was only the woman I loved, after all. It's gotta be so incredibly hard to tell the difference between--" Having expected interruption and instead came to halt himself, the one Admiral challenged the other to a ferocious scowl.

Vladik exercised some strategic ingenuity of his own -- he sidestepped. "Carth, people change. And even if this Mandy is half a paragon, well, you did say he went off to the Outer Rims with Revan. Who knows what the Dark happened to them there?"

Perhaps there was something wrong with his ship's chrono; there was no way it was firstshift still, surely?

Carth blew out between steepled fingers. The should've-been-priming retort fizzled out as a dud, then even that much vaporized into profound lethargy. "The Admiralty's already gotten it on plasticine, holorec, _and_ my fripping word that I don't know, Vladik. I'm the one she left behind, remember?"

"I believed you."

"Don't patronize me!"

A muscle ticked under the frame of blond locks, though the grinding teeth stopped short of audible. "You know, I probably was even worse of a colicky Wookiee during the... situation when it was my Dani, but you really must pick your fights better. I'm sure you've figured out by now that peacetime Fleet can be a lot trickier than anything that went on during the War. All I am trying to do is be your friend."

Carth rubbed a hand over his forehead. "I know, and it means a lot, really. I'm just, it's, it's just difficult. You get it."

"Sights on gold-lock," Vladik affirmed. A not-quite-comfortable silence later, he broached with bitten caution, "You know how all this is going to look at that mob camped outside your hull. _Not_" -- a raised hand emphasized -- "that they should be catching the tailwind of any of it. All I'm saying, maybe not all of your protesters are civvies. Perhaps some of them are pretty heavy on the decor, even."

Translation: Expect trouble from lapels housing many insignia pins. Why had Revan tried to destroy the Republic? From all that Carth saw, it seemed to be doing a pretty bang job on its own.

"Pardon?"

He shook his head. "I'll let you know when I figure out myself." A casual gesture encompassed the datapad. "Where'd you get that, anyway?"

"Tra--" Vladik began, but snapped his mouth shut in favor of waggling an admonishing finger. "Sorry, old boy. There's 'unauthorized access', and then there's 'unauthorized access'."

Carth shrugged a "had to try". "Alright. So what would these... gentlebeings say if the Exile was to leave? Hypothetically, of course."

* * *

_Seven days before Zero..._

"That's it. I've had it up to here" -- an empathetic gesture -- "with your manding excuses. Just you watch me, I'm going ri--"

"You are going right to your room, young man, and make sure you wash out that street-trash mouth of yours. I have some sanibuff sitting in storage bay C-two-six just for 'special' fellows like you."

Atton Rand produced his rudest scowl. The Zabrak woman did one better, scrunching the lines on her face just so that they stood out in stark blue caricature. He moved to push past her, but then the two stereotypically burly guards began to fidget with their blasters. Apparently, when the wife of the section's security chief said that "the General" was not to be disturbed, the goons took it to mean that she Was Not To Be Disturbed.

"Grotty aliens," was muttered low enough to be technically "under breath", but promptly enough to make it through the portal the shrew presently vanished into. In the next second, he whirled to jab an accusing finger at a stifled giggle. "And don't you think for a moment that I'll forget just how useful _you_ have been, snerp."

"But Atton, you were doing so very well, I just didn't have the heart."

"You got the last part right."

"It's a job requirement," the bounty huntress retorted, carefully nonchalant. "If you're quite done here? I've got a few other places I'd like to see you humiliate yourself in."

"What's it with you? They've got Reni locked up in there, we haven't seen her in closing to two farkled days, and you don't find it the least bit suspicious?"

"Gee, lemme think. Could it possibly be, errr, 'house arrest'?"

"Right, why in space didn't I think of that? Of _course_ you've seen the Light, and take everything out of Republic mouths on faith now."

Mira wondered if the rogue was cognizant of the two very Republic guards, both currently occupied in eyeing him like a piece of mis-chuted trash. It took lesser time to dismiss the question as silly. Even if the conscious Atton (if such exists) had conveniently forgotten, "Atton" the phenomenon piloted more seamlessly on instinct and peripheral information than any Jedi she had ever met. Including the Exile.

She had no doubt that he had already not-planned five scenarios the not-goons would misappreciate. His belt had done a bit of sliding around with all that gesturing, and now the lightsaber brushed the base of the hand so casually stuck on one hip. He stood with an obliging expanse of back for the guards to glare at, but his weight was all on the toes, primed for motion.

The bounty-huntress couldn't have explained to herself why she spent time casing one Atton Rand. There were plenty of reasons why he needed watching, certain Exile-induced impulses amongst them; nevertheless, she did not know why _she_ had chosen the task, or the task chosen her. "Nobody else is" had thus far proven convenient.

"Oh, don't even bother," said Mira to the guards. "He only looks Human on the outside. Under all that... hair? It's actually a Gamorrean."

Neither buff so much as twitched. One had blue-green eyes, the other gray. Both looked like her as if there were only plexiglass between them and the twisty gray loops of her brain. Rather like Visas Mar on her Impassive Seer days, the huntress concluded, then stopped herself from checking (again) that they were not one whit Force sensitive.

"Hey!" lodged another non-appreciator of her wit. "At least I don't take wardrobe advice from 'Nar Shaddaa's most trashy'!"

Some days, Mira hated the pilot/rogue. On the other days, she hated him too.

_interlude_

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

"She doesn't need me."

Bao-Dur lacked imagination, or so he had been told. Whether or not one credited such complaints, _he_ was fairly confident that it had never, ever covered a Mandalorian in any context involving confessionals. It was only unfortunate that the words had been encroaching like vines on Kashyyyk, demanding explosion, implosion, or both in quick succession.

The other did not laugh. The tech did not like to contemplate what his reaction to that might have been.

Such slight concession to politeness had to be (and was) promptly compensated for.

"Think you can handle the truth, Zabrak?" Mandalore asked, which was not to say that he followed with anything as logical as waiting for invite. "Truth is, you are complacent because 'your General' has always needed you that bit more than she does anybody else. The rest of them have to work at earning a place; _you_ only have to get her to admit yours to herself."

Bao-Dur found the statement worthy of an eyebrow. "'Them'? What about you?"

A snort packaged several flavors of impoliteness. "How old do you think I am, to be panting after her arse like the rest of you pups?"

The Iridonian was less offended than might have been expected; the crudeness of language was clear a red Twi'lek. After all, Mandalore was quite capable of the manners of royalty when so inclined.

_**Not too old for all those stares, those you think no-one can tell.**_

Undiverted by the non-verbal opinion, Mandalore continued to share the hostile attention he gathered just by being dressed as he was and polluting the very Republic walkway. Bao-Dur tried to project that they were complete strangers, but it proved a hard sell. Especially with the man bubbling disapproval like the veritable cauldron.

"I have lived more regrets than you have years, Zabrak, so don't come whining to me for pity."

"I don't want anything from you. Least of all talk on something you know nothing about."

"Bah. If you're the type to belly-up at the first sign of trouble, you're not worth her time. Or mine."

"Since when do you care, Mandalorian?"

"Right now, I don't even 'care' for the entertainment if you fancied a walk in the Big Isn't."

"That suits m-- Wait, this isn't hap--"

_end interlude_

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

"--pening."

The words splattered with little effect on the shimmer of an irritated shield, nor the more physical wall that had sprung up not one meter beyond it. Quick-throw, in Bao-Dur's expert opinion, which put the duration of his time-out on the scale of the two to three hours required for the material to set. The deduction accomplished little except to depress him.

He stuck an inquisitive finger into the fascinating glow, yelled at said finger's protest, then wondered how Mandalore had managed the feat. Upon second thought, he decided that he had not actually seen the man dissolve into both barriers, so it was perhaps not a failing on his part after all.

His throat was so dry it hurt to swallow, his vision grayed at the most inopportune moments, and now he was starting to see things (or starting to admit to it).

"Shavit," he uttered, but there was not much energy to go around, much less into it.

_**Dithering, hmm?**_

"Hearing things" just made posting to the list.

_**All a-wait for timely rescue? Eh, such a fondness for that role. But this time She is not even to know you are missing, is She? Might She have a care if She did, think?**_

From _The Ambidexterity-Challenged's Guide to a Counseling-free Life_: "Only reply to those voices from pedigreed flesh-and-blood (and on occasion encircuited) beings." Bao-Dur should know, for he had wrote it.

Meanwhile, his mouth was busy with, "The General doesn't abandon her people."

The chuckle was so palpable, Bao-Dur made the mistake of looking around for a source. His head boomed disagreement with the motion.

_**The hopeful memory, or the denying one?**_

And then: _**Done always is easier to do again. Still, worry not. Years the wait will not be, not this time.**_

The tech wondered if hands-over-ears helped with Voices, before sluggishly recalling his present... handicap. In lieu, he squatted and with great care hung his head between his knees, hoping gravity would take the edge off the dizziness. Not that dizziness was an edge-y kind of thing; more of fuzzy, like crash-foam eating up the-- his thoughts were forking again.

What had he been doing?

_**Not coming for you. She is not. Nobody is. It is what you wanted, no, to hide? Hide you wanted, hide you do so well, Zabrak...**_

* * *

"Talk."

Bez-Enth resolutely did not look at the object being set down with exaggerated delicacy. She knew without looking that it was still recognizably a sheet of templast. As soon as the innocuous plastisheet had started blackening, oh so many days ago, she had drowned it in one of those flasks of "stuff" Bao-Dur was in the irreparable habit of stacking around. Hydraulic fluid, perhaps, or some more delicate treatment for his artificial arm; it mattered not to her except that it had been an excellent antioxidant. One did not become a renown "data miner" without a certain pool of back-of-hand knowledge.

Unfortunately, it was to be Bez-Enth's only victory over the odd letter. None of her considerable repertoire had managed to hack up the locale, much less identity, of the sender. She had even considered networking a linguist or two for leads on the unusual grammar -- for sure not any patois the Iridonian had ever encountered. She cursed her past self's curiosity, now. Still, there was enough damage that the only legible copy of the missive was inside Bez-Enth's head.

The Exile's brows knotted over her broadcasted defiance. The consequent lack of reaction was almost disappointing. Black eyes simply stared, as if force of will could repair the dictates of science.

It couldn't, of course. The charred surface could not possibly be remembering pixels and plex. The wrinkled top edge could not possibly be smoothing out, reconstituting words Bez-Enth had memorized in the seconds available to memory. Jith-tales were Bao-Dur's folly, not hers.

Something made her stare anyway.

"I can continue, if I must."

An _intensity_ radiated from the Jedi. All experience yelled that it was as dark as those orbs boring into her, but, honestly? The woman had never possessed enough color in those sallow cheeks to be accused of either Light or Dark.

She remembered Bao-Dur gushing over "the General's" skill at "manipulating inanimate matter on a small scale". He had not at all appreciated her miffed (and, she thought, rather clever): "Like, all of your brains?"

"But it will tire me, and I cannot afford to be tired. He" -- was that an imagined skip in that dry, factual voice? -- "deserves better. You might not care much for me or my methods, but you cannot deny being just as... concerned, Bez-Enth."

"You can't even say his name, can you? I don't know how you think you can face him if you find him, after all you've done." She had meant the events of the still-morning, but found that she preferred the wider scope. "That's why you ran, isn't it? You can face the Jedi Council, exile, death, but you can't face _Bao-Dur_'s disillusionment."

For a long while both were silent, one out of preference, the other, well, who knew? Then the latter spoke, with such an expression on her face that the Zabrak might have sworn it was a smile.

"I have done far worse than to threaten his friends, Bez-Enth. Or to hurt them."

The one word was drawled over slowly, with intent, and suddenly she was no longer on the verge of panic and right there drowning in its waters. "You wouldn't dare."

"I always do whatever is neccessary."

"Spoken like a true Sith."

"Whatever is neccessary."

"Go download a virus."

"But I don't want to do it that way, and neither do you. You know there is trouble, Bez-Enth. This is no time for us to be fighting over pride."

"Gee, it is 'us' now, is it?"

"I am not here to judge you, and you don't respect me enough for it to matter anyway."

"More like 'not at all'."

"Help me find him, Bez-Enth."

"Oh, now you're _asking_?"

Lids lowered, but only for a petaflop. It was with stalwart eye contact that the Exile said, "I will beg. Do you want to hear it?"

* * *

"...but that's still too kind for that mangy whelp of a neutered kath-hound," the bounty huntress exposited in great detail to "tall, dark, and cool", all the while maintaining unwavering eye contact. Now, if only the drink would do something about that _taste_ left in her mouth, she'd be in business.

When the Exile deigned from this latest bind she had twisted herself in, she and Mira were going to have a Talk. The Atton Situation simply could not be permitted to carry on.

**Hah. Knowing "Master Jedi", she'll just bat those pathetic huge eyes and look like she's about to cry.**

A few prickles later: **Okay, okay, so I'm being a little little bit unfair. Fine, a little more bit.** By all the huntress' calculations, the end result would be about the same anyway as if she had.

"_That_ kind of kiss, eh?" the third in a crowd interrupted over her shoulder.

**Is this my Jedi Trial and someone just forgot to tell?** "Look, if you don't have enough of your own sodding business to-- ah, I, uh, Senator Arr'skra!"

He tapped her partner-in-conversation twice on the shoulder, and seemed to study the consistency. "Ah, Deltron spice wine. Good choice, good choice, but let me introduce you to a Bothan delicacy, eh? Bartender! Two tumblers of chi'ffa. Blend in the lightest touch of shadun. And make sure you chill the glass, not dump ice in the drinks." He turned to shake his head at Mira. "Aliens. Can't ever seem to understand that proper chi'ffa is to be served neat, not with all that" -- his hands waved dramatically -- "water. Water. Pfft. Tasteless, textureless, good for nothing. Well, producing fish, maybe."

Two big (cold) glasses and many glances askance later, Mira took a cautious dip. "There's no alcohol," she pronounced accusingly.

"Not a spittle," the Senator agreed cheerfully. "Oh dear, you weren't aiming for drunk and disorderly, were you? Tsk, tsk, tsk. The state is a disgrace. Criminal waste of alcohol, I tell you. Fine spirits should be savored in little sips on the tip of one's tongue-- unless they should be taken in one big mouthful and sloshed around, of course. Hmm. Anyway, it is of utmost importance to keep that pretty department of faculties at just the buzz level, my dear. Think of all the delectable sensations you'd be missing out otherwise!"

"I, uh, didn't know you frequent this... establishment, Senator."

"Haven't I told you to call me Besk? I am sure I told you to call me Besk. It does wonders for an old man to hear a sweet young thing call him by his forename."

"Listen, erm, Besk, was there something you wanted to...?"

"Ah, all business, business." Ears flicked. "Youth nowadays. Hand one a paza'ak pot, and I swear she'll put it into down payment for charity. Charity is all well and good, yes, but it should start at the self, no?"

Mira was not as collected as she had thought, for she found no response. Unfortunately, Besk Arr'skra's imagination was very rapid; it jumped from a minor grimace to nearby word, from the nearby word to:

"Eh, that looks like Jedi Rand is in for the floor tonight. No? A week? Two?"

"The only business 'Jedi Rand' has inside _my_ sleeping quarters is when I have him trussed up, castrated, and packed for the highest bidder!"

Mira surprised herself with the fierce disclaimer. Then she narrowed her eyes in a sudden understanding of why this harmless, shameless hedonist was Bothan Senator.

He continued appearing the proverbial "uncle, concerned" -- not that even in her orphaned youth had Mira ever imagined relatives furnished with, well, fur. "Oh." He winced. "You must excuse my slight sympathy, very slight. Purely as a fellow male, you see."

She made a noncommittal sound, but the politician was turning out to be as difficult to refuse as the Exile. **Must be why he's the only one she greets with a face that doesn't look like it grew on Hanharr.**

"First kiss, eh?"

Shock was quicker on its feet than dismissal. There was no possible way either "Besk" or "Senator Arr'skra" could have intel on that.

He was, however, evincing every indication of being as happy to dissect the matter as a gourmet meal. "Hmm. Wouldn't have put down a stake for the boy to be a bad kisser. Now, me and Human males get along just like Selkath and water. I do like curves and a little pelt on my, ahem, partners, but a man must always keep one nose up for competition, see. And, alas, alas, I must concede that young Rand is the type to, how do you put it? Charm the pants off a Jedi?"

Mira snorted, involuntarily amused. "That's what _he_ thinks, but look where he's _not_ getting with our good girl Exile." In a lower register, but more empathetically, "Genius thinks that sticking his tongue everywhere else will somehow get her to see what she's missing."

Ears flattened disapprovingly, or so the huntress construed. "So, good kiss, bad reasons."

"Atton Rand has _no_ fragging reason to let that sarlaac-refuse near my face, unless he has a dental appointment with my lightsaber!"

Besk took a mouthful of his drink and swirled it savoringly around his mouth. Then he reached into a pocket and pulled a slightly crumpled packet, which he sniffed delicately before rending with a sharp-ish claw. "Cracknut?"

The huntress accepted, did as the name suggests, chewed with thought. "I don't even know why I'm telling you any of this," she lobbed with some degree of suspicion.

"Ach, what could be the harm? I'm just an old man whose only excitement comes from dodging a couple of firaxa aides. They have enough teeth to fill one rancor each, I swear, and it takes hours just to pry them off. And anyway besides, we have a mutual friend."

"Oh, yeah. Of course. It always comes back to her."

He coughed. "In your plans to make the boy forget her?"

"It's 'in my plans' to stay five parsecs from the slightest smell of Atton Rand. And I'd be quite successful, if her Jedi-Masterness could only ever learn to clean up her own forked tragedies!"

* * *

"Atton said he has it 'taken cared of'?"

Even to Bez-Enth's apathetic eye, the Exile looked like she either couldn't swallow the name, or couldn't make herself say it; odds were on both. She had shoved her hands into her sleeves again, but the Iridonian had already had her fill of the tremors the "Jedi" could not seem to control. Since apoplexy was the least likely diagnosis, Bez-Enth wondered for the n-th time if she was in some form of withdrawal. It would at the very least be an excuse for the behavior.

"How?"

"How what?"

"How did he say he could get the ship repaired? Or did he not mention that it happens to be a few bolts short of decom?"

She blinked. "You think I gave the tail-end of a skalrat? Lover-boy wants to redshift _you_ off, I'll _pay_ him 'good riddance'."

"Fine. Then how did he explain knowing to contact you? Atton couldn't hack into a database with T3 to back him up."

"Right, I forgot that you think you're the only one Bao-Dur ever talks about."

"I just spent the whole of last year listening to him tell Atton to 'get to the point' so he can 'get back to work'. It would be just as strange if they were suddenly each other's confessionals."

"So sure, are you? Oh, yeah, he's not allowed to have friends other than you."

"Bez-- fine, you don't know. But you didn't think it was the least bit suspicious when this" -- a nod at the templast -- "just turned up to give you the perfect plan to 'distract him for a couple weeks'?"

"So shoot me for being not even half as paranoid as you. Or do you only wave the 'weapon of a Jedi' nowadays?"

The Exile stared at her, long, hard, and without a single blink or other involuntary movement.

"Look, you are the one who picked up this Atton fellow to get a-snuggly with. All I know is, he said he'd get you out of contamination range if I could keep Bao-Dur away for a while, make you think he wants to quit. That jives just fine with my program. I really don't care if your pal's plan is to stick a shiv up your brain while necking you."

"Didn't it bother you at all to deceive your-- to deceive him like that?"

"About as much as it bothered you to run away eleven years ago, I suppose, the only time he ever really needed you around. Actually, it should bother me less -- I'm protecting him, you were and always are just protecting yourself. But knowing you, I'd be surprised if you felt a thing at all."

"You don't kn-- I won't believe you didn't put a tracker out for Maes Anonymous. You had to have been curious, if nothing else."

Bez-Enth muttered several choice profanities to herself.

"What?"

"I didn't get anywhere, okay! Think you can do better? Prove it."

"I don't have the time or inclination to-- This bug you planted, are you sure it didn't open up some kind of backdoor? Was there anything that looked like carrier code, anything at all? What about redundant code? A lot can be hidden in what looks at first like it's just poorly made."

"Why you keep on insisting that Bao-Dur saw something that _isn't there_, plain and simple--"

"How are you explaining his disappearance to yourself? Because I would really like to know."

"Don't know him half as well as you think, do you? He just has this awful habit of losing track when some project or another acts up. I'm sure he's just--"

"You are reaching, and you know it, Bez-Enth!" The Human seemed paler than her pallid norm, and drew several breaths in order to continue. "He has never failed to inform me of--"

"He's not under your command any more, 'General'! There's not a single farkled soul who is!"

But the Exile had stopped listening somewhere between "command" and "General". Then she whirled and began to disassemble the console. Its owner would have acted on righteous outrage, except that recent memory recoiled. Instead she could only count the throb of her horns and watch the wiring be pulled apart for no reason at all, then put back completely _wrong_.

"You seem to have plenty of time to waste with hassling me and tearing up my home like some--"

It was all lost on the Exile, busy as she was with powering up the console and drumming an annoying ditty on its side. Two minutes and an incoherent jumble of symbols (**really, what did that infernal woman expect?**) later, she slowly lowered her forehead until it rested on the screen.

"Get your--" Bez-Enth began heatedly.

The words that chopped her sentence were as soft as they could be above whisper: "He, he remembered."

"What?"

"A trick he taught us all when 'under my command'."

"I'm so happy for you, but unless it'll pull him out of thin air, I don't see why you couldn't--"

"It's his PRTD, Bez-Enth."

"Wh--"

"Planned Route To Destination. I, it is, was, SOP -- Standard Operating Procedure -- to leave an encoding if there was any indication that it would be a solo op." Finally seeming to collect herself, the Exile slapped both hands on her laps, rose, started collecting the few tools and spikes she had spread around.

Bez-Enth watched her for a few heartbeats. "It must just have slipped your mind to check _before_ that whole Sith 'act'."

No reply.

"I'm coming with you."

That produced a startled pause. "I will need to move fast."

"Fast, right, you and which invisible slicer? Or were you planning to sic that _thing_ at every lock and console in sight?"

"If it takes." Under the oh-so-dry tone was mockery.

A memory upped Bez-Enth's tally of intruders:

/#Bao-Dur, you're the one who won't buy a microcaliper without dissecting it six ways to suicide! Now about this Human, all you can say is 'I like her'?#/

He shrugged, and it was apparent between the two of them -- Bez-Enth, and the circuit board -- who had the larger share of his attention. She did note an odd, private curve on his face.

/#Sometimes, it is just that simple.#/

Bez-Enth did not like Bao-Dur's "General". She did not like the way the woman strung him along, the demands she made on his attention and loyalty. That said, there was no disputing that siccing "the General" on a problem was eighty percent of getting it done. The other twenty inevitably involved spectacular special effects; it was just that one could usually not afford to count.

"I _am_ coming with you."

"No."

"I don't care what you--"

"That was not a question."

"Great, because I wasn't--"

_**Sleep.**_

Even in the incandescence of fury, Bez-Enth felt sweat chill on her back. She had always rated "the General" to be about as warm as solid nitrogen and as fuzzy as a molecular stiletto, but it was as if the Jedi had just transcended. There was something horribly ruthless in those eyes, something entirely more terrible. Eyes darker than vacuum and a greater force of destruction. Eyes unraveling every last thread of thought that dared gather...

* * *

_interlude_

"There are occasions where I find myself rather envious of you, Bao-Dur."

Under the glitterstim lighting, midway through a delicate adjustment, the Iridonian tech took a moment to be curious. He was less nonplussed when midnight surroundings dissolved into the stark bright of the _Ebon Hawk_'s hangar; nor did he wonder that his eyes required no time to adjust. He did spend a thought, perhaps two, on his shortage of one functional limb, plus quite a few more on how Mical might justify being where he was. There was a certain spot by a certain workbench that only one person had rights to.

The intruder edged towards a shiny piece of circuitry, impervious to warning glares as well as his inappropriate occupation of space. Before fingers could mangle the prize, a more callused set snatched it to safety. Mical had the grace to beam a chagrined version of his ready smiles. Bao-Dur was not appeased.

The historian dropped the expression after half a minute of stewing. Since peace was evidently in lockup until the scene played to one of their satisfactions, the tech resigned himself to the requisite "Why?"

Mical chuckled, but uncomfortably. "Oh. A silly thing, only."

_**Then why bother me with it?**_ he wanted to ask, but had been brought up by nonbelievers of rudeness.

"You served with her for two years of the Wars, didn't you? Or was it three?"

"'Her'?"

"The Master, of course."

"About that number."

"You seem to know her very well."

A raised eyebrow was the only response that came to mind. Fortunately, it was remarkably all-purpose.

"I would have said she seems very familiar with you as well, but she does have that effect on everybody, doesn't she?" A smile piped up as blue eyes played truant. "She makes it so easy to be, well, easy, around her, somehow. Yet I do not think she understands how incredible that is. It is instinct to her."

Bao-Dur shrugged. Of all the things he had ever been accused of, being a people-person had never come up. When that failed to break the other's spice-dreamer facade, he began fidgeting with random instruments, though he had no idea what he was supposed to be continuing.

Mical cleared his throat with a touch of embarrassment. "That is besides the point, however. Perhaps not that much besides it, but, ahem." Slight creases formed on his broad, smooth forehead. The Zabrak was used enough to Humans that their features no longer seemed discomfitingly flat, but there was still that slight hitch between what was there and what he expected to be able to read.

"When I really think about it, though, I find that she is just as much a mystery to me as all those years ago, back in the Academy. I have to say I know more about Mira, or even Visas, than the Exile herself. It is... disturbing. I suppose it is appropriate, considering that she is our Master, yet..." He terminated the sentence with a supplicatory gesture.

"Everybody has secrets. I don't believe the General is actively trying to keep some."

The upturned palm grew an indicating finger. "That is just the kind of thing I am talking about! I have never met another person who is so open, yet so closed, both at the same time!"

Privately, Bao-Dur wondered where Mical had thought to find a parallel for his General.

"You think you understand how she thinks, then she comes up with something completely unbelievable that cannot possibly work. But you follow anyway, and of course it works because it is _her_, and then you look back and it is simply lost as to how you could have doubted in the first place."

Confirming that Humans (of the live variety) did indeed have finite lung capacity, the Disciple paused. He need not have bothered with the hopeful face, however, for Bao-Dur had no banalities to offer.

A sigh deflated his entire frame. "I am rambling to the wrong crowd, aren't I? You always did seem to understand her moves before the rest of us. Is it because of all you went through together during the Wars?"

The once-soldier tried charity on for size. "Logic is not always the quickest or clearest path. With the General around, I've learned you can't go that far wrong by just jumping when she does. It will be straight into the action, if nothing else."

"Faith is an easy thing when it comes to her, yet you just seem to know at a... at a deeper level." Golden tresses shook off near-visible droplets of frustration. "I can't find the right words for it. You know what I mean, though?"

The last time he'd checked, Bao-Dur had not yet cracked the code of Universe, Life, and Everything, so: "No."

Mical threw both hands up in surrender, then brought one to rub at the back of his neck. "Perhaps not, at that. I suppose it is easier for you, being an alien."

At the raised brow, he hastened to correct the diplomatic oversight. "It is just that as a, uh, Human male, it is often quite difficult to, uh, ignore certain of the Exile's, erm, attributes. I suppose she simply does not, ah, affect you the same way."

The Zabrak had long ago observed one tenet in his corner of reality -- all conversations about the General with fellow males were doomed to this particular gravity well. "She is the General," he asserted with rather more annoyance than usually allowed.

"Yes, I suppose she is that, to you. Would it that the rest of us could be as chaste in our admiration, she would not be so reclusive as she has been of late, I believe. But your relationship has always been a--"

Eyes that had been slanted oddly at him abruptly sparked very, very wide. "By the Light," Mical breathed, voice rising as befitting a revelation. "I do believe there might be a sibling-bond between the two of you!"

The Iridonian felt, and thought he must show, an utter blank.

Unfortunately, the lack of reaction did not drag on the historian's excitement, nor did it blunt his mounting certainty. Bao-Dur would not have been overly surprised were he to whip out a datapad and start scribbling. Then again, his current mental health was rather on the numb side.

"I really should have suspected something like this sooner," muttered Mical. "The Jedi Council decided early on that the Twins had a link that was entirely too dangerous, did you know that? They were taught to dissociate almost the instant they came into the enclave's custody. But, such a powerful connection, between budding Sensitives... it must have been like trying to cut a river in half."

Bao-Dur blinked, slowly, once, twice.

"Don't you see?" The Disciple asked, but buzzed at too exalted a scale to be bothered with such piddling details. "Just like all that water has to go somewhere, so should have all that psychic energy. I wouldn't be the least surprised if they just transferred it elsewhere, subconsciously."

Bao-Dur began to feel quite disgruntled by the sudden scientific zeal holding him under nanoscope. He found that he preferred the muffle of shock.

A frown disturbed Mical's face, but not his spirits. "It would explain this connection I can almost touch," he continued pontificating, "between the two of you. I am only surprised that it was you... er, not that there is anything wrong with... but, ah, you did spend your childhood on Iridonia, didn't you? I suppose it is possible, being a Force thing. Likely, even, since the Council would have actively deterred bonds with any of the local Sensitives. It would have had to be a quiet thing, and the distance would have helped to dissipate--"

"Mic--"

_end interlude_

--:----:-:-:-:-:-:----:--

"--al." The rebuke scurried forth and bounced with phrenetic speed off bare, close walls. The pace of blood through his veins was not much better, though Bao-Dur was a little confused as to why.

Fine, make that "a lot".

"Mical?" he again reminded the air. The floor was unkind to his shoulder blades and tail bone, but neither could be persuaded to shift. The shadows hid no other sentient, but he could not quite recall why he had cared. There may have been an important point, once, but as of right now all his attention was held by the word "sibling".

Siblings were, in his substantive experience, beings who existed to drive one over the brink of tolerance and well into insanity. As final revenge for uncharitable thoughts, they then vanished from existence at cost of staggering pain.

Why was the word replicating uncontrollably in his mind?

_**So difficult to figure? But know, you do already. One thing, it all comes back to. One person, always, always. Have you understood why She asks, you answer?**_

"She's the General," he answered, then remembered that he did not believe in Voices.

_**A circle is She, a circle embedded in a polygonal universe. But past is Her time, while yours has never come. Why follow the follower of dying echoes?**_

"She needs me."

_**Never has She said it, thought it, believed it. Never have you.**_

"She's my, she is my friend." Words were no friends of his cracking throat, but self-control seemed as nebulous a concept as everything else, bar some.

_**Friend, you are Hers. Is She yours? To death, She lead you. To kill, She taught you. When She left? When She would again leave? When always you it is that--**_

"Yes!"

_**Such devotion. What will it earn you, pray?**_

"It is not always about profit."

_**How is it not? Would do-gooders do good, if it did not make them feel it? All selfish, the ultimate drives of sentience. Evolution requires it.**_

"I'm not going to debate the ethics of intent versus effect with you."

_**And why not? You have what else to do with time?**_

That deserved a certain answer. He gave it.

_**Or, it is perhaps the companion, not the venue, hmm? You miss them, such frivolous discussions with Her.**_

He shut his eyes, imagining that it also squeezed the Voice out. His horns ached.

_**Fancy She misses them too? Such devotion, as already She has proved She forgot?**_

* * *

She ran.

She ran at Force Speed and to the pinnacle of her ability. It was a stupid expenditure of energy, one she would no doubt come to greatly regret. It was also just another pail in the pond of bad judgments she had contributed to this mission.

_Dallying in known space._

_Offending Bao-Dur._

_Taking Atton's word on a passed message._

_Taking too long to solve the sabotage._

_Not dealing with Baraka._

_Getting arrested._

_"Interrogating" Bez-Enth. Obvious, obvious! That she had nothing to willingly or unwillingly offer._

_Wasting time with the templast, just to show up the woman._

_Forgetting to trust Bao-Dur._

That least forgivable of an unforgivable lot throbbed to the beat of her unhappy head, whilst its accusations knifed into her heels. Bez-Enth was right, she should have remembered protocols that she herself had established. She should have known that _he_ would not have forgotten. The faith worst kept had always been hers.

_Avoiding Atton._

_Avoiding Baraka._

_Avoiding Bao-Dur._

_Getting snarky with Bez-Enth._

_Failing to "appropriate" a speeder._

The last was Reni's most immediate crime, and she dreaded to find out the consequences. It was probably just as well that she had not tried to hot-wire anything in her current... state, but that was just her trying to comfort herself.

She would have prayed to the Force for the ability to pull through, except that a Hutt doled out better interest schemes.

_Poor plan, worse than no plan._

_Losing temper with Bez-Enth._

_Being preoccupied with..._

The landscape deteriorated, but she hardly noticed. While the ambiance rose smoothly into noon and dipped lazily into night, the scenery hopped and skipped choppily. She welcomed the latter, because it meant progress, but hated the former, because Time was the worse enemy.

She ran.

* * *

_**You feel It, so close. The Force, as your kind call. Near. It welcomes, right here.**_

"Yes." He whispered, because nothing stronger could be produced. "No." It couldn't be, could it? He was sure-- he thought that-- he might have-- something was missing. Had been missing?

_**So easy, one step. One step to an end. No more pain, no more want, no more impossibilities.**_

He nearly reached out, but shied at the last moment. "Can't," he croaked -- who was he? "Wait'n for Gen'ral."

He knew who _that_ was; he almost certainly did.

The silence was long, at least to his misaligned sense of time. It may have been longer still.

_**Perhaps, right you are.**_

It is only a Voice, or less, the figment of one. So he told himself, but he heard anyway the sly upturn of eyes, the falsely concerned brow.

_**Perhaps She indeed will come for you. And She will die.**_

He did not believe!

_**Tsk, tsk, tsk. Which one to prefer, you wonder?**_

He could not comprehend his own answer.

* * *

"My-- our employers wish to be advised of the whereabouts of this Mandalore."

"Gee, really? So glad to find people who want to expand their minds. State of education these days? Atrocious, I tell ya."

"This information is required."

"Good, good, warms my very bones to hear of such enthusiasm. I'm so happy for them."

"You will procure this information, Surgeon."

"This zdrinbagh is great. Sure you don't want some? Not much for the carnal appetites, huh? Not much for the smarts, either. Or maybe momma forgot to teach you that if you're gonna sit in a restaurant and only have things coming out of your gab instead of in, well, people are gonna stare."

"Distraction will not excuse you from duty. Your instructions stand."

"Instructions? Lemme check. Nope. Don't remember no instructions."

"Our sources stopped tracking the Mandalore shortly after he left the vicinity of Citadel Station. Our employers desire knowledge of his present location, and itinerary."

"Oh, was that for me? See, I thought I heard you talking to somebody I don't know, and _my_ momma taught me it's rude to eavesdrop."

"You may most likely obtain both from the Exile."

"'Sources' playing hooky again, eh? Exile's gone and gotten herself shacked up with a couple of Republic akk dogs, or haven't you heard. It's just a little bit difficult to get one word with her these days."

"We are confident you will persevere. Especially since your plans require ingratiating yourself with her."

"Hey! When a lady says 'no', I hear 'no'."

"I trust I will not have to remind you of certain consequences, should you persist in your inability to deliver."

"Gee, but what if I have a short term long term memory?"

"That is not my concern."

"Ow, was that supposed to hurt?"

"I see no purpose in the continuation of this--"

"Fine, fine. Your employers want me to play a little pet-and-tell with the Exile? Not gonna happen unless I get some help. See, there's just this small detail of..."

* * *

"I like mysteries, challenges, you know I do. But sometimes, a girl just needs it in big, clear letters what your intentions are."

The deep night sky performed "silence, unimpressed". In her peripheral vision flirted the ghosts of an active shield, too coy to be directly looked at. Similarly, the puzzle lay strewn like so many toys of an absent child, its logic balking her tired mind. She was slipping, she knew. She should have been faster. She should not have made a roster's worth of mistakes. She should not be stuck on simple follow-the-directions. She should not be close to panic.

Renani the Reluctant Jedi (Master) ran a hand through half a head of grimy, sticky, very disgusting hair. She considered flattering Bao-Dur's hairstylist with imitation, but there was just no time. Rising from a crouch, the near-blackout convinced her to pay her ration pack homage instead.

She chewed mechanically, having already forgotten that she was, and looked out again into the deadland not one meter from her nose. Even Force Sight could not pierce a darkness as much of life as of light. Kreia's Force trick could not see her through where there was simply no oxygen. And her benighted self was certainly no help in figuring out where onwards one errant tech could have gone.

On the verge of sparking graffiti with a fist, Reni caught herself, and stopped. She did not need to be in any more ineffectual shape than she was already.

"One time," she told the absent, "just one time, I wish you would manage a more realistic view of my abilities. You never leave me any room for anything less than perfect. You always set me up to disappoint!"

The words rattled with surprising harshness. The cold air, previously refreshing, now only quiveringly chill, held no reply.

The Exile did not need one, for she knew: "I already have."

* * *

He did not remember when breathing had started to be such a chore. Relax the throat, expand the lungs -- not too much though, because what followed was only to compress them again. Then repeat, repeat, repeat, until some seconds' negligence brought attention back into shocking fore. It was all very annoying, and extremely bad design.

Still, in interludes where he had half a thought to spare, he remembered to hope.

_**You will have your way, then.**_ The near-chatty tone was flash-frozen. _**She will come for you, and then she will die.**_

He would have clapped his hands over his ears, but his... condition contrived to misplace the effort.

_**She will die in your place. And then you will be where, O dreamer?**_


End file.
